Sucker Love
by ofgoddesses
Summary: She's a whole grade ahead of you. She's popular. An ice queen. An enigma. Most importantly, though, she's Elsa Arendelle, your brother's girlfriend, and girls like her aren't supposed to notice girls like you. AU. Elsanna.
1. Prologue

**notes: **i have been aching to write for these two for ages. more like months, but still. i'm excited about this, because elsanna is very much hell yes. enjoy, and please let me know what you think! happy reading. x

**warnings:** very dark themes explored, some language, and smut in later chapters. no incest, though, so, um. there's that, i guess.

* * *

_Sucker Love_

\- Prologue -

The first time you see her is two and a half weeks into your junior year of high school, when your brother Hans brings her home with him after football practice. You don't even look up at first when you hear a feminine giggle, instead keeping your focus on the papers in your lap because Hans is always bringing girls home. It's really nothing new.

"Anna," he greets you, so naturally you have to look up, and, well. Holy _shit_. You're not one to use or even think such words but you think this time you can make an exception because the girl clutching onto his arm with both hands is the most beautiful creature you've ever seen. She also appears spooked out of her wits, her wide blue eyes darting around nervously as if she's afraid that something is going to jump out at her, like a child watching a scary movie. "Meet Elsa," Hans continues, smiling widely as he looks over at the striking girl on his arm. "Elsa, this is my little sister, Anna."

"Hello," the girl called Elsa says timidly, smiling gently, unsure. Her face is framed by platinum blonde hair in a messy side braid, a few stray strands of hair falling into her eyes. Her lashes are dark and long, though, like feathers brushing against her milky skin when she blinks and she's wearing a pair of dark jeans that sit fairly low on her narrow hips. She's like a model. Or an angel. Yes, definitely an angel.

You smile back, just a little, and give a tiny wave before shooting Hans a playful glare. "I'm not his _little_ sister, I'm sixteen. That's hardly what I would call _little_. Anyway, do you go to Lakeview, too?"

Elsa opens her mouth to respond, but Hans speaks before she can utter a sound. "Elsa is new to Lakeview this year. She moved here from Colorado, and she just joined the cheerleading squad. She's really good. Right, Els?" Elsa merely gives a tight-lipped smile as if she is either unused to or ashamed of being a recipient of such praise, her huge eyes studying you curiously. You wonder, in a moment of idiocy, if you are as interesting to her as she is to you. More likely, there's something in your teeth. "Well, we're gonna go upstairs now. Later, Anna."

"Nice meeting you," Elsa says, so quietly you almost don't pick up on it. She smiles again at you and then follows Hans who is tugging her playfully up the stairs. You listen as you hear him giving her a tour of the upstairs rooms before leading her to his room with a cheeky "and the best for last" quip and closing the door behind them. You snort; if your parents were here your father would be ripping that door back open before it was even completely shut.

You turn back to the pile of papers in your lap and sigh, suddenly painfully disinterested. Instead, you close your eyes, and in the darkness behind your eyelids Elsa manifests herself, all glittering blue eyes and pink lips and your eyes shoot back open. Shaking your head, flustered, you curl up tight and return to your schoolwork.

* * *

"Wait, wait, wait. Elsa _Arendelle_? Your brother is dating _Elsa Arendelle_?"

You merely shrug and take another bite of your sandwich, a little taken aback as Kristoff's response. "I guess so. How do you know who she is?"

"She's new, right? Super blonde cheerleader, looks like she belongs in a Victoria's Secret catalogue?"

You nod slowly. Frankly, Elsa is even prettier than any model you've seen, but you're not going to say that. "Yeah. She's really pretty." Shit. You might as well have just said it.

"I didn't know you were into girls." Kristoff raises an eyebrow at you teasingly. He's joking. You know he's joking. But still.

You shake your head, feeling your face heat up. "I'm not." Lies are always easier than the truth, but lying to Kristoff is harder than lying to anybody else. He's your best friend and has been since you were nine and he caught you when you slipped from the monkey bars. He knows you better than anyone else. He thinks he knows you better than you know yourself. Maybe he's right, but right now you're not so sure. You don't know yourself very well, to be honest. You think maybe you don't know what you want, and the thought makes you so frustrated you could scream.

"Anyway," Kristoff continues obliviously, crumpling up his sandwich wrapper and pulling out another damn sandwich from his bag. "She's in my AP Stats class. It's been pretty hard to concentrate in there nowadays, as you'd expect." You frown. Damn Kristoff and his superior, senior-level math skills. "She's a lot quieter than I expected her to be."

"What do you mean?" you ask, brow furrowing.

"I guess I just expected her to be, you know...loud, like all the other cheerleaders are. But she's really quiet. She doesn't talk very much unless the teacher calls on her. Maybe it's because she's still so new and she's still adjusting. I dunno."

"She doesn't talk at all?"

"Not really. I mean, a lot of the kids in the class try to talk to her and stuff but she just doesn't seem too interested. Maybe she's just one of those snobs who thinks she's too good for everyone else," Kristoff snorts unattractively and you giggle, shaking your head fondly.

"So how is AP Stats going?" You ask him, trying to change the subject because for some unexplainable reason him painting Elsa in a bad light makes you uneasy.

Kristoff just shrugs. "It's alright. The work itself is a piece of cake, but everybody else in the class is a senior and naturally, none of them want to associate with a junior, so. It's a little bit lonely." He grins goofily. "But I'll power through."

You smile sympathetically at him. The guy might be intimidating on first glance, but he really is just a big softy and you wouldn't trade him for the world. "I wish I was in there with you, but you know me and math just don't work."

"My offer to tutor you for the price of one medium pizza each week is still open, you know."

You roll your eyes at him. "I appreciate the offer, Kristoff, really, but you know tutoring would just turn into us goofing off for a few hours. We already do that stuff, anyway."

You both sit, eating quietly in the comfortable silence. You ponder what Kristoff said, and you wonder what it would be like to be with a person like him. He is your very best friend, and he's handsome and charming and funny and sweet, but somehow, you can't imagine it and you're not sure if it's just because you've known him so long or if it runs deeper than that.

"What're you thinking about?" He asks then, breaking the silence. You blink, shaking your head to clear your mind.

"Nothing," you tell him, smiling reassuringly.

You'd rather not think about it.

* * *

The second time you see her is the very next day, while you're walking with Kristoff down the hallway to where you've both got the same same English class. You notice her immediately — she stands tall but timid, eyes lowered to the ground. She glances upwards and meets your gaze and her look of anxiety melts into a smile upon seeing a familiar face, you assume.

"Hi, Anna," she greets you quietly, giving you a tiny, quick wave before continuing down the hall, narrow hips swishing as she hurries towards her next class.

"She actually acknowledged you," Kristoff notes, eyes wide like a child's as you enter the classroom and sit side by side in the back, where you can whisper and giggle with little chance of being detected. "You're like, golden now. Please, when you get accepted into the elite inner circle and become the most popular girl in school, don't forget about little old me, okay?"

You flush, swatting Kristoff away playfully. "Shut up, she was just being polite. Don't be such a drama king."

Kristoff frowns, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. "I'm not being dramatic, Anna. I already told you, that girl doesn't acknowledge _anybody_. She barely even acknowledges the teacher; it's a miracle she even talks to Hans. Do they even talk, or do they just make out?"

The thought makes you shudder. "I don't know, Kristoff. I don't exactly listen in through the door."

"Whatever. Like I said, she's an ice queen." He speaks in a hushed voice, pulling out his binder in a feeble attempt to make it appear as if he's actually doing classwork and not discussing the oddities of a pretty senior cheerleader.

"I don't think that's a fair accusation to be making. You don't even know her." You aren't sure why his words bother you so much, or why you feel so suddenly defensive and on edge. After all, maybe he's right.

Kristoff looks over at you this time, clearly surprised at the rigidness in your tone. "Okay, fair point. You don't know her either, though."

He's right, as per usual. You tend to get overexcited and passionate about things, jumping to conclusions too often. Kristoff knows this, and he knows how to handle it, for the most part. Usually, you agree with him and drop the issue. But this time, his words make your stomach twist.

It's true. You don't know her. You don't know anything about her.

But you are a fairly perceptive person, and what you've seen in her eyes is not malice, and it is definitely not disdain. It is uncertainty, and it is fear.

* * *

The third time you see her is two days later, because Kristoff left early to go to a doctor's appointment so Hans agreed to drive you home after football practice, so you make yourself comfortable on the metal bleachers and try to convince yourself that you're interested in football as you watch.

Your attention is divided when you see a cluster of girls run onto the field. Cheerleaders. Heart rate picking up embarrassingly, you shamelessly scan the group for Elsa. It doesn't take long to spot her - she stands in stark contrast to the rest with her lithe, willowy frame and hair and skin so light they're nearly white. She reminds you of a drawing of a girl that's been mostly erased, or a girl made of glass. Or an ice sculpture of a girl. You smile. Maybe she is an ice queen, but not in the way Kristoff thinks she is.

Many of the other cheerleaders try to engage her in conversation, their eyes bright and ponytails swinging as they hop around on their toes, but Elsa just replies in short, clipped sentences, eyes lowered as she shifts from foot to foot. She doesn't look disinterested; she looks like she's hesitating, afraid to see the wrong thing. You wonder why nobody else seems to be able to see it. She moves nimbly, white-blonde braid swinging. She is ethereal. You love your bother to death, but you find yourself wondering how Hans managed to snag a girl like Elsa.

This girl is not an ice queen, or a blue-eyed, cold-hearted predator.

And when she glances over and catches your eye from across the field, smiling shyly, you vow to find out what she's hiding beneath that nervous, doe-eyed exterior.

* * *

a bit short, but it's only the prologue, so. leave me a review and tell me what you guys think?

thank you, darlings. x


	2. Encounter

**notes:** thank you guys for the lovely response to the prologue — genuinely, i am so insanely grateful for all of your reviews, favorites, and follows. you all rock times a million. this chapter isn't super long, but i am fairly happy with how it turned out. i truly hope you all enjoy! x

* * *

_Sucker Love_

\- Chapter I -

* * *

The first time you have a real conversation with her is on a Sunday. Your mother is cleaning up the kitchen and your father is in the shower and Hans has rushed out to pick something up from a friend's house. It's okay, though — you have grown accustomed to being (mostly) alone, Kristoff and the sweet, talkative little boy named Olaf down the street who you sometimes babysit for being the sole exceptions.

You're curled up on the couch, swaddled in your favorite blanket because even though it's only late September, Bellevue can be a little unpredictable and you've always been sensitive to the cold. An open book sits in your lap and the sky outside is grey and with Hans gone, the house is quiet. It's nice, but it feels empty and it makes you a little uneasy.

The chime of the doorbell breaks the silence. You assume maybe Hans forgot his house keys or the garage opener or something, and you roll your eyes, smirking a little as you hop off the couch and prepare to tease your brother for his forgetfulness.

So naturally, you're a little surprised to find Elsa Arendelle standing on your doorstep.

"Is Hans here?" she asks quietly, eyes wide in surprise as if she wasn't expecting to see you here. She's fidgeting with the hem of her oversized blue tee shirt; even dressed in sweat shorts and her hair messy, she is still the most beautiful person you've ever seen, pretty enough to take the breath right out of your poor, unsuspecting lungs.

"Oh!" You blurt after a bout of awkward silence, rubbing the back of your neck with your hand. "He actually just went to pick something up from a friend, I think. He'll be back soon, though." Peering around her, you notice there is no car in the driveway. _Did you walk here?_ you have the urge to ask but don't — she may be your brother's girlfriend and you've spoken to her a few times, but she's so quiet and shaky you feel like you'd definitely be overstepping a boundary.

There is a long pause, and Elsa murmurs a quiet, "Oh, okay, thank you," and turns to go.

Something twists in your gut then and you don't think you can bear seeing her leave so you say, "Wait!" a little harsher than you intended. Elsa flinches. "Would you like to come inside? Hans will be back any minute, anyway; it doesn't make sense for you to leave now. You can just watch tv in the living room or something if you'd like."

She looks at you tentatively, eyes scanning your face for any signs of insincerity, and smiles a little when she finds none. "Okay," she says, voice soft as the breeze. You step back awkwardly, holding open the door for her and you make it a point not to check her out as she walks past you and into the foyer.

Elsa is still standing there, clutching her jacket in one arm and looking fairly uncomfortable. "Please, sit," you almost beg, so she does. She perches herself awkwardly on the very edge of the couch, like she's afraid to get too comfortable. You sigh a little, gazing at her as she gazes absently at the television, and then turn back to your book.

"Have you read it before?" Her voice breaks the long-standing silence and you flinch, startled but recover quickly. "The book, I mean." She gestures vaguely to the book in your hands, _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_. It's the first time she's initiated conversation with you. Your stomach flutters.

You nod, a little too enthusiastic about this turn of events. "It's one of my favorites."

Her face breaks into a wide grin, eyes lighting up, and it's like watching the sun rise all over again. "Mine, too."

You nod happily, urging her to say more, but when she doesn't, you fill in the gaps instead because you've always been a chatty one. "Really? That's so cool! I've never met anyone else who likes it as much as I do."

"I read it in my sophmore year and nobody else in the class liked it, but I love it," Elsa says, voice still painfully quiet but you think it's the most she's ever said to you, and you'll take it. She blushes a little, as if she's just revealed a very deep, dark personal secret.

Your foot is tapping on the ground eagerly, heart bursting with happiness because Elsa is sitting here on your couch and she's talking to you and smiling and you just want her to keep talking forever.

Almost on cue, she clamps her mouth shut and says no more, lowering her gaze to her hands in her lap.

"I understand if, like, it's embarrassing for you to be talking to a junior," you blurt to fill the silence. Her pretty mouth turns downward into a frown and you start wondering why Hans was blessed with being witty and funny and you were cursed with the inability to stay quiet and also the lack of a brain to mouth filter.

"No," she says in what is the loudest voice you've heard from her yet but is still, in comparison to your voice, very quiet, her wide eyes meeting yours. Your eyes are pretty darn blue but they're somewhat akin to murky lakes or something unattractive like that in comparison to her icy ones, so blue it almost hurts. She's so _beautiful _and you start to wonder if it's even okay for you to be consistently admiring your brother's girlfriend like this. Whatever. It's not your fault that you like admiring pretty people.

"It's not like that at all, Anna, I promise," she says, voice soft but reassuring and firm. "Maybe your brother has given you false expectations of how upperclassmen are supposed to treat you, but I don't mind it a bit. I like talking to you."

Your heart twists almost painfully in your chest. That is probably the longest sentence she's ever spoken in your presence (and, you have a feeling, anyone else's) and her last reassurance of _I like talking to you_ makes your stomach feel all tingly and weird.

Before you can say anything else Elsa is narrowing her eyes at you and you wonder if there's something stuck in your teeth but quickly realize she's staring at the white streak in your hair. She reaches out slightly, as if she wants to touch it, but then shrinks away as if she's terrified she's crossed some kind of boundary, cheeks turning pink as she looks away.

"Oh," you say, smiling reassuringly at her and tugging gently at one of your long braids where the streak is interwoven in your strawberry blonde hair. "I was born with it," you explain. "I'm not slowly turning into an old woman streak by streak, I promise." You cringe a little because, wow, you might be the most painfully bumbling, graceless conversationist on the planet.

Elsa doesn't seem to mind, though — she meets your gaze again and giggles a little, so quietly you almost don't catch it.

You made her laugh. Anna: 1. Everyone else: 0.

The sound of the front door banging open startles you both, though Elsa is far more responsive than you. She jolts, nearly falling off the couch at the sound; you've never seen somebody so startled over something so simple.

"Anna, why was the front door unlocked?" Hans' voice travels through the foyer and reaches your ears, painfully loud. As soon as Elsa hears his voice, she visibly relaxes. You shouldn't be jealous or bitter, but you kind of are. You bet Hans hasn't made her laugh before, except that you know he has, and this shouldn't be a competition but in your mind it's very quickly escalating into one.

Hans enters the room noisily, because he's your big brother and everything he does is always noisy and flashy.

"Anna, why was the fr-" he swallows the rest of his words as soon as he spots the pretty blonde girl next to you on the couch. "Elsa!" He greets her warmly, tone shifting from annoyed to pleasant almost effortlessly. You stick your tongue out at him, but he doesn't notice. Then again, you know from experience that it's actually pretty hard to focus on anything else when Elsa is in the room.

"Hello," Elsa says quietly, standing up from her spot on the couch and meeting Hans halfway. He pulls her into his arms like this is a fairy tale or something and you make some very audible gagging noises when he kisses her. Usually you don't make a big deal out of Hans' PDA with his girlfriends - in fact the last time you remember doing so you were fourteen - but something about this is bothering you. Mostly, though, you're just looking out for Elsa. As a friend. Not even a friend, really. As an acquaintance.

Love is gross, you decide. Relationships are gross. Maybe you'll get a cat instead. Or two, or ten. Yeah, that could be good. The thought of some boy with his large, sweaty hands on your hips while he kisses you messily is repulsing — it's alarming, really, how much the mere thought of it turns you off. You shudder a little.

And you don't even want to think about the alternative.

* * *

"No way. You guys have the same favorite book, too? Yeah, you're definitely gonna be in the elite inner circle by next week."

You're in the library with Kristoff in a fruitless attempt to work on a Physics project.

Groaning in exasperation, you reach across the table and smack his shoulder lightly. "Oh, hush, you big lug. This is why I don't tell you anything."

"Oh, please," he scoffs. "You tell me everything." Which is true, actually. Or, almost everything. Your current sexuality crisis that definitely isn't a sexuality crisis because you're definitely a hundred percent straight, yes you are, is something you've failed to mention. But that's okay because this is probably just a phase and everything will be back to normal soon and it won't even matter, except the thought of being with a boy has never been appealing and it scares you to think that maybe it never will be.

"Whatever," you mutter, rolling your eyes and biting your lip to keep yourself from blurting anything stupid out and/or crying because this is so stupid. You shouldn't be freaking out about this, but you are, and you're scared and you can't even tell anyone about it, not even Kristoff.

Kristoff, noticing your distress, rests a gentle hand on your forearm. "Are you upset because you don't know how you're going to work me into your speech when you're crowned homecoming queen?"

You snort, because you can't help it — Kristoff always knows how to make you laugh. It's one of your favorite things about him. If you were forced, right now, to be in a relationship with a boy, you would be all up on that in like a second. Kristoff is your favorite boy.

"Yes, Bjorgman, that's exactly it. Because I am definitely homecoming queen material."

He actually frowns at that, lower lip jutting out in a pout. He's like a giant puppy dog or something. "Don't put yourself down like that, Anna. I don't like it.

"I only speak the truth."

"No, you speak _your_ truth."

Your eyes widen at that, and your mouth opens, then closes. An uncomfortable silence hangs over you both, and you don't speak to him for the rest of the period, not because you're angry, but because he's right.

You've always been good at fooling yourself, but Kristoff knows better.

* * *

Hans and Elsa are sitting on the couch when you arrive home that afternoon, twenty minutes late because there was almost a collision in the school parking lot because teenagers suck at driving. Especially Kristoff. You love him to death, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't fear for your life every time you get into the car with him.

Elsa is sitting up completely straight, a site you've grown accustomed to in regards to her, but her expression is unreadable. She always appears rigid and frightened and hesitant and it makes a part of you that you didn't even know existed ache.

You yearn to help, but how are you supposed to help if you don't know what's wrong? Or, what if there isn't even anything wrong and this is just how she is? You shoot that theory down pretty fast. Anybody who acts in such a manner clearly has something troubling them, whether they're aware of it or not.

Hans does that stupid middle school thing where he yawns and stretches his arm to wrap around Elsa's narrow shoulders. You glare at the back of their heads from your spot in the kitchen as you shove a few handfuls of dusty Cheerios in your mouth to fortify yourself until dinner.

It's kind of chilly in here, you note as you close up the box and shove the cereal back into the pantry. Your house isn't enormous but it's big enough that it gets fairly chilly in the fall and winter months, especially downstairs.

The sound of footsteps startles you, and you whip around, braids almost hitting you in the face. Elsa stands in the arched entrance to the kitchen, looking shy and a little unnerved.

"I didn't mean to startle you," she says, looking so guilty you'd think she killed your cat or something, if you had a cat.

"It's no problem, Elsa," you reply honestly, smiling brightly at her with the hope that she'll return with a smile of her own. She doesn't. She mostly just looks very, very meek, which is strange because you've always considered yourself a very approachable person. "Can I get you something to eat or drink?"

Elsa just shakes her head quickly, looking like she wants to disappear into herself. Is this the same girl who just the other day gushed over _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ with you? You almost shake your head in bewilderment.

"Are you cold?" you ask, noting she's wearing a fairly short skirt and doesn't seem to have more than a light sweater. "It's a little chilly in here."

She shakes her head again. "It doesn't bother me."

Somewhere in the distance, you hear a toilet flush and laugh because it's so quiet and you don't know what to do. "I'm guessing Hans will be back in a second," you laugh, and Elsa smiles a tiny bit. Success. Sort of.

Elsa turns to go, and you turn back to the pantry, shaking your head, bewildered, when you hear it. Her voice is soft like the wind and even quieter.

"I forgot to tell you the other day, but I like that streak in your hair. It looks pretty."

And then she's gone, back to the living room, you suppose, and you're left standing in the middle of your kitchen with a funny feeling in your gut and a stupid grin on your face.

"Thanks," you tell the now-empty room.

* * *

That night, you run an intensely hot shower and, as steam fills the tiny bathroom and you step out of your clothes, you gaze at yourself in the foggy mirror.

It's a strange feeling — you know what you look like. Strawberry blonde hair with a single white streak like a skunk, blue eyes that are almost too big for your face, small lips and nose. Cheeks splattered with light freckles that continue down and rest on your shoulders as well. Two scars on your right knee and one on your left from several failed biking stunts as a child. You're not as...erm, _filled out_ as you'd like to be, but it's okay. One day, maybe.

You look the same as you did yesterday, and the day before, and last week, and last month, but you don't _feel_ the same, is the thing. You feel like a stranger in your own body. Your mind is clouded and murky like the steam that's fogging up the mirror even further but the one thing that is loud and resounding above the rest of your thoughts is that you don't want to be gay, you don't want this to be happening right now because you never thought you'd have to be prepared to face a sexuality crisis so you're not prepared and you're scared out of your wits because you don't know what this feeling is and -

you close yours eyes for a long time and take a deep breath. When you open them, the mirror is so clouded you can't see yourself anymore. As you step into the scalding water coming from the shower head, you chant the same words over and over to yourself.

You are Anna, and you've got freckles you hate and you're a sixteen year old maybe-gay and hard as you try to not panic the thought terrifies you to your very core.

* * *

After your shower, you're feeling warm and cozy and clean and the tiniest bit better. You dry your hair thoroughly and pull your coziest sleep pants from your drawer, towel wrapped tightly around your body as you head back into the hall to grab something from the bathroom when you run right into Elsa.

She squeaks, clearly startled and embarrassed. "I'm s-so sorry-y," she stutters, stepping back. She glances at you, and you think you see her eyes rake over your towel-clad body but then she's looking down, cheeks burning red and you do the same. You're kind of mortified, but she looks like she's about to cry and you have the sudden urge to comfort her except right now you're just in a towel and it's kind of drafty in here and also she's your brother's girlfriend.

"It's fine, Elsa. I didn't know you were still here. Sorry about that." You are about to make a beeline to the bathroom when she reaches out and grabs your wrist gently.

"Anna," she whispers, eyes wide. "Can I ask you something?"

* * *

aaand we'll end there for now, folks. although this story is obviously going to be chock-full of elsanna, it'll also prominently feature anna's struggles to come to terms with her sexuality and feelings towards elsa and people in general.

thank you so much for reading, and please drop in and leave me a review if you would be so kind. love, love, love. x


	3. Stranger

**notes:** you guys are so cool. literally, i cannot thank you enough for the awesome response this story has gotten thus far. every review, favorite, and follow means the world to me. this chapter is, um. probably not exactly what you were expecting and/or hoping for, but i do sincerely hope you enjoy it regardless. x

* * *

_Sucker Love_

\- Chapter II -

* * *

You freeze, and turn to her in what feels a little like slow motion, toes just barely touching the hallway floor. "Yeah, Elsa?" you ask, voice shaking in a way it usually doesn't and your heart is thudding on cymbals as you strain to look into her eyes through the growing darkness in the hall.

"I, um. I was just wondering," she breathes, hands reaching up to fiddle with the end of her braid. "I was wondering if Hans has said anything to you about asking me to homecoming?"

"Oh," you say lamely, unable to mask your disappointment. You mentally chide yourself, because really, what were you expecting? Not that. But you've always been an overly optimistic person, anyway. "Um, no. He hasn't said anything, but then again, he doesn't really talk to me. Why?"

Elsa bites her lip, shifting her gaze to the carpet. "I was just wondering. I'm just, uh. Not sure if I'd want to go, and I get the feeling he's going to ask me and I can't explain to him why I don't want to," she blurts, and you swear she looks like she's about to cry.

You frown a little, wrapping the towel tighter around yourself. "You don't like dances? Didn't you go to any back at your old school?"

Elsa nods timidly. "Yeah. I just...don't know if I want to, um. Anymore."

You squint a little bit, confused beyond belief by the girl's strange behavior. She's a mystery and instead of figuring her out piece by piece she's just getting harder and harder to understand.

"Well," you start, rubbing the back of your neck with your hand, "I can talk to him about it, if you want?"

"No!" It's the closest she's come to snapping, icy blue eyes wide in panic. "No, it's okay. I overreacted. I'm just being silly. Sorry to bother you, Anna." And before you can reply and assure her that she isn't bothering you in the slightest - in fact you'd love to sit her on your bed and listen to her talk all night, if she'd let you - she's slipping away, trotting down the stairs and you're left standing there shivering, defeated and bewildered.

After hurriedly slipping into your pajamas and brushing your teeth furiously, you collapse onto your bed and cover your face with a pillow, groaning noisily.

And if your dreams consist of of platinum blonde hair and pale skin and bright blue terrified eyes, well, that's nobody's business but your own.

* * *

Typical Friday night: you're at home, babysitting Olaf with Kristoff while Hans is out with his ostensibly never-ending group of friends - and Elsa, of course - doing whatever it is popular kids do on Friday nights. Even your _parents_ are out. Without a doubt, you are living the teenage dream.

Olaf is sitting on the couch while you've got the whole upper half of your body inside the entertainment center, looking around for a DVD to keep the kid occupied until Kristoff gets here. Olaf _adores_ Kristoff, but due to the child's overzealous nature their previous amicability has been reduced to Olaf intentionally annoying Kristoff as frequently as possible while Kristoff groans and looks to you for advice. Still, though, he's better at wrangling the kid in than you are, which is why you like having him around when you babysit.

"Honey, I'm home!" Kristoff announces when he barges through the front door, and you laugh fondly, promptly hitting your head on the edge of the entertainment center and wincing.

At the sound of Kristoff's voice, Olaf nearly leaps off the couch in excitement, running to the foyer and hugging Kristoff's legs. "Hi, Kristoff! Did you bring Sven?" His dark eyes widen as he peers around Kristoff, looking anxiously for the sweet Collie.

"Not today, kiddo," Kristoff laughs, ruffling the child's dark hair affectionately. You can't help but feeling a little disappointed — Sven is kind of like the dog you've always wanted, and Olaf gets a kick out of the voices Kristoff does for him.

Luckily for you Kristoff suggests watching _E.T._ which is both his and Olaf's favorite movie, like, ever, and is the one thing they have in common. This gives you ample opportunity to curl up in the corner and work on some homework and it's actually distressing how many times Elsa crosses your mind. Just little things, really; you wonder what she's doing right now, with Hans and all of his loud friends and all of the cheerleaders that are too loud and in-your-face for someone so apparently delicate as Elsa is. You wonder if she's having a good time, or if she'd rather be at home, curled up on the couch watching her favorite movie.

You wonder what her favorite movie _is _— is she into romantic comedies like you or does she prefer obscure indie films? Or maybe she's a horror junkie. Maybe she's more of a musical person. Maybe she likes to sing when she's alone. You already know she likes books, and you find yourself wondering what else you have in common with her.

And then you wonder why you care so much at all.

By the time the movie is finished, you've downed three cups of green tea in a feeble attempt to keep yourself sane and Olaf is dozing. His parents will be by soon to pick him up, and you tip your face to the ceiling and thank whoever is up there for making this a fairly peaceful night, all things considered.

You hoist yourself onto the couch where Olaf is curled up loosely and Kristoff has made himself at home, feet resting on the coffee table. As you sit quietly with the two of them you have this weird vision of yourself ten years into the future with a child and a husband like Kristoff, loyal and handsome and funny. It's bizarre, to say the least. All that green tea is starting to mess with your head.

"Are you and Kristoff..." Olaf murmurs sleepily right on cue, the beginning his question punctuated by a yawn. You grin fondly. "Are you and Kristoff gonna get married?" This kid is clearly high, or at the very least just really exhausted.

You snort obnoxiously, and Kristoff glares at you, his lower lip jutting out as he crosses his arms over his chest.

"No, kiddo," you laugh, running a hand through Olaf's short dark hair. "Where would you get a silly idea like that?" His eyes flutter shut, and it'll only be a matter of minutes now before he's out for the count. You couldn't be happier — Olaf is a sweet kid, but he's a bit of a handful and he manages to wear you out every time without fail.

"Dream killer," Kristoff hisses at you, but he's just kidding. You know he's kidding, but you frown anyway because you're tired and the vision of you being married with children still lingers and somehow for just a second it feels like everything might be okay, like you could kiss him right now and you might actually _like_ it.

For a second you actually consider it. Kissing him. Just to prove to yourself that you're being stupid and you're not actually having a sexuality crisis, but the thought of kissing him and feeling nothing at all is enough to scare you out of doing that pretty quickly.

A headache threatens to erupt inside your skull, so you excuse yourself to brew another cup of green tea.

* * *

It is three thirty in the morning and Hans still isn't home.

Your parents arrived home around a couple of hours ago, right after Olaf left with his parents, followed by Kristoff an hour later, and they promise you that Hans is going to be grounded for a year aka two weeks as soon as he actually comes home.

That should be enough to ease you into a blissful slumber - well, that and the fact that it's three in the morning - but the moon is so bright tonight, bathing your entire room with pale white light even with the blinds drawn. You toss and turn and you just want to sleep because you're feeling awfully vulnerable right now and maybe sleep will help but you can't sleep because it's too freaking bright and no, you're not gay, you're not.

It shouldn't be a big deal, but it is.

You wish you were the kind of person who could let this sort of thing just roll right off your back like water droplets sliding down your spine and usually you are, but not with this. Not with this, because you're sixteen and you thought you'd had yourself figured out for the most part: you are Anna Westerguard, lover of romantic comedies and theater and puppies. That's it.

It sounds kind of lame, really, but it's okay because you know enough about yourself to keep your head up and coast through your life like you're supposed to and these stupid thoughts are screwing everything up.

You've had your fantasy wedding planned out since you were six, for christ's sake. It's not like you're amongst a family of homophobes or anything, because you're not. You're not scared of being made fun of, or of not being accepted or anything like that.

But as the years have trickled by you're feeling less and less like Anna and more and more like somebody you're not familiar with and it scares you half to death. Your insides are changing and shifting while your outsides remain the same and it's like something out of a horror movie, looking in a mirror and seeing yourself but feeling like somebody or something else entirely.

Feeling tears prickling the corners of your eyes, you roll out of bed and take another scorching hot shower. It feels like the water is going to melt your skin off, but you would gladly welcome that. You want your flesh to melt off so you can tear yourself apart and rip out whatever is making you feel like this, extract it from a place deep within your ribcage. You're infected. You want to rip it out and grow new, shiny smooth skin so your insides will feel familiar again.

For the first time in your life, no matter how long you scrub and wash, you still feel dirty.

* * *

You wake up on the bathroom floor the following morning at a time that is closer to lunchtime than actual morning, sort of wrapped in a blue towel but not really and with your hair a ridiculous mess. It's hard not to grin at yourself in the mirror; you're a _mess._

You still aren't feeling a hundred percent but you are awfully hungry, so you hurry down the stairs two at a time after getting properly dress and taming your hair to the best of your ability, stomach rumbling and an extra big bowl of Lucky Charms on your mind. Mostly just the marshmallows. Hans can eat the gross cereal part, because he sucks.

Hans is already sitting at the kitchen table, head resting on the edge as he rubs his temples. You flick his ear as you walk by, and he swats at you halfheartedly, clearly agitated.

"Fuck off," he grumbles, raising his head a little to glare at you. There are bags under his eyes. "I'm so hungover, _shit_."

"Don't do anything you're going to regret in the morning," you chide him, pouring yourself a bowl of cereal and digging in unceremoniously. You're always playing second mother when your actual mother isn't around to scold him; it's hard to pretend the thought of him getting drunk around Elsa doesn't bother you. It's just, being around intoxicated people probably makes her uncomfortable, and wow, since when did you invest so much thought space on your brother's romantic affairs?

"Shut up," he mumbles miserably. "I do regret it, though. I have a game this afternoon."

It takes you a minute to process this. Football game. Today. Football means cheerleaders. Cheerleaders means Elsa. Before you can stop yourself, you blurt, "Can I come?"

Hans looks at you as if you've sprouted wings. You can't really blame him, though — you don't have any interest in football nor have you ever had any interest in football. His eyes narrow skeptically, but after a second he just shrugs, looking too tired to press the issue.

Three hours later, you're sitting on the cold metal bleachers, bundled in your favorite green sweater as you watch the cheerleade— no, as you watch your brother's football game. But also the cheerleaders. Mostly just Elsa. Definitely just Elsa.

It's not _so_ strange, right? Elsa is mesmerizing not just in the way she looks but in the way she moves, swift and graceful. She's like a fairy. You could watch her for hours, but every so often the stupid whistle blows and the cheerleaders are hustled off to the sidelines or another cheerleader obnoxiously blocks your view of the pretty blonde girl.

From here, you can't see her eyes — can't see the distrust and worry. All you see now is a smiling, happy teenage girl, bouncing around on her toes and thrusting her silver and blue pom-poms in the air, waving them excitedly. You can't decide if this is better or worse.

But when the cheerleaders are hustled off to the side again so the crowd can focus on the game again, you spot Elsa, sitting alone on the bleachers, a good three or four feet away from the rest of her team. The other girls sit clustered together, on their phones or fixing their mascara or chatting away, but Elsa merely sits, eyes cast downwards. Every so often one of the other girls will nudge Elsa and ask her something, or show her something in their phone, but Elsa merely nods and musters up a tiny smile before returning to her self-imposed exile.

The sight makes your heart ache, and as a cold gust of wind blows across your face, you pull your sweater tighter around yourself and turn back to the game.

You don't even know what the score is.

* * *

You have never experienced such painful secondhand discomfort in your entire life.

Your parents seem to have conveniently forgotten that their son was out all night doing god knows what with god knows who, because they decide it is one of their parental duties to treat him to dinner at his favorite restaurant in honor of the big win at the game. They've always liked him better. It sounds bitter, and, well. It is, but it's still true. And, because they hate you so much, they decide it's a great idea for Hans to bring his new girlfriend along.

Well, shit.

So your parents take you all out to dinner at this really corny Italian place that's Hans' favorite but they have really awesome pizza so it's cool. You throw a bit of a tantrum and demand that since Hans gets to bring a guest (albeit a really beautiful one who you most likely will be ogling all night) after the stunt he pulled last night, you should too. So you bring Kristoff, because, well. Duh. Also, you need somebody to keep you grounded during this dinner.

The meal is, at best, decent, and, at worst, ridiculously awkward.

Hans talks a lot. Kristoff talks a lot. They talk to each other quite a bit, and you think you can see a bromance forming. Your parents ask Elsa a lot of questions. She answers in quiet, clipped, vague sentences. When she excuses herself to go to the restroom, you hear your mother whisper sarcastically to your father, "Well, isn't she a friendly one?"

You kind of want to scream.

Elsa returns to her seat directly across from you after a few minutes. She looks like she might be crying, and you want to say something and/or reach across the table and squeeze her hand but you can't because you're at a crowded dinner table and it seems like an innapropriate time to be doing so. By the way she squeezes her eyes shut tightly, you can tell she'd like to go unnoticed.

"I'd like to propose a toast," Hans declares loudly, wrapping one arm around Elsa and raising his glass of freaking Coke with the other like it's champagne or something. "To an undefeated season, and to my wonderful parents, and my beautiful girlfriend." Elsa turns beet red. "Oh," Hans adds as an afterthought, "and my pest of a little sister, Anna." He grins smugly at you. "And her friend Kristoff, who is actually pretty cool."

Kristoff beams ridiculously.

"Don't strain yourself, Hans," you mutter under your breath. Elsa giggles, and at first you think it's directed at something else but after a few seconds it becomes apparent she's giggling at your little quip. You look at her. She's regained her mostly vacant exoression, eyes gazing at the clean white tablecloth in front of her, but a smile small remains on her lips.

As everyone else clinks their glasses together goes back to their conversation, you look down at your lap, smiling victoriously.

Anna: 2. Everyone else: 0.

* * *

i really, really love hearing your guys' guesses and ideas for this story. i don't want to give anything away, but i'm trying to keep the characters realistic as possible in the sense that nobody is going to be 100% good or 100% bad. i just want them to be human, assets and flaws and all.

therefore, i'd like to keep the progression of elsa and anna's relationship fairly realistic as well — this isn't going to be super slow burn or anything, but i don't want them to be head over heels in love within the first five chapters (well, i actually do, but that's no fun.)

ideas for this story continue brewing, so expect fairly frequent updates.

as always, this is the part where i whore myself for reviews. so, um. review? DO IT FOR THE VINE. or at the very least, do it for elsanna.


	4. Chocolate

**notes:** you guys flatter me. i literally can't even explain how thrilled i am with the response this story has gotten. thank you to everyone who has taken the time to leave me some kind words or even taken time out of their day to read. love, love, love to all of you. as for this chapter, i'm actually fairly happy with how it came out in terms of character interaction and pacing. now, on with the show!

warning: atrocious writing and quite a bit of fluff lies ahead, folks.

* * *

_Sucker Love_

\- Chapter III -

* * *

It happens on a Tuesday.

You're hunched over the kitchen table, head throbbing and an empty mug that previously held green tea as well as your Algebra II textbook sitting in front of you. Stupid math. Stupid, stupid math.

You're about to pack it in and accept your fate, that you're never going to be good at math so you should give up any dreams of becoming anything involving any kind of math ever. Which is okay, really, because you don't want your adulthood to be marred by the nauseating chore that is math, anyway.

You're about two seconds from slamming your textbook closed in defeat when you hear the front open. It's Hans, back from football practice which normally would not be cause for celebration but he's talking to somebody, so you figure that either a) he has gone completely insane or b) Elsa is with him. The mere idea of the latter makes your heart stutter, which takes you by unpleasant surprise. You shouldn't be this excited to see your brother's girlfriend, you note with a frown.

"Hey, squirt," Hans greets you, tweaking your cheek because he knows you hate it. You swat him away, exasperated, but you can't hold on to your irritation for very long because, well, Elsa is here and truth be told you're much more interested in talking to her than you are in being hung up on your annoying brother.

"Hi, Hans," you greet him mildly, rolling your eyes before turning to the girl still standing in the doorway, looking unsure but fairly calm for what seems like the first time in forever. "Hi, Elsa."

She smiles warmly at you and the sight makes your heart hurt. "Hello, Anna," she greets you, voice quiet as ever, small smile playing on her delicate features, as if she's, like, actually happy to see you. The idea makes your head spin.

Hans merely nods in your direction, grabbing like three granola bars from the pantry and devouring two of them on the spot. You shake your head, astounded. Boys are gross.

"I need to shower," he announces, mouth full of sticky granola goodness. You shake your head at his utter boy-ness. Swallowing, he grins and wraps an arm tightly around Elsa's waist, squeezing in a way that makes you wish you weren't here right now. "Babe, will you be okay down here if I shower real fast?"

Elsa merely nods, smiling at him and then at you. He kisses her but misses, lips ending up at the corner of her mouth instead and she giggles lightly, pushing him off playfully.

"You ladies keep each other company," Hans calls out from down the hall, and you and Elsa stand in silence as you listen to his heavy footsteps on the stairs. And then it's quiet, and your heart is beating really fast for some reason and there's a lump in your throat that you need to swallow back down.

"So," you begin, smiling at Elsa, who remains in the doorway, eyes wide as she gazes at you curiously. "How was practice?"

An adorably puzzled expression flits across her face before she comes back to reality from wherever she was, shaking her head. "Oh, it was, um. It was good. It was fine." She smiles vaguely, shrugging.

You furrow your brow, desperate to keep some kind of conversation going. "Uh. So, do you want anything to eat? I'm pretty sure Hans finished off the granola bars, but we have plenty of other stuff."

Elsa bites her lip and shakes her head slightly. "No, I'm fine. Thank you, though."

"Come on," you press, and yeah, you're definitely overstepping a boundary here. "You just had two hours of practice, there must be _something_ you're craving." You're practically bending over the table towards her in impatience for her answer.

Elsa purses her lips, eyes cast downwards for a moment before she looks up and meets your gaze, expression a little guarded, and offers you a tiny smile. "Do you have any chocolate?"

You nearly squeal with happiness at that, darting around the table and tugging her gently by the wrist over to the pantry. Her skin is so startlingly cold that you almost let go. Almost. She flinches, looking suddenly uneasy, but doesn't pull away. "Of course we have chocolate! It's only my favorite food, like, _ever_."

Pulling open the pantry doors, you show her your little chocolate stash in the corner of the bottom shelf — dark chocolate, milk chocolate, white chocolate, truffles, chocolate-covered dried fruit, exotic chocolate your father brings you back from his work trips, and chocolate biscuits. Elsa's eyes widen adorably, mouthing opening just a tiny bit to form an 'o' with her lips like a child in a candy shop. You can't help but chuckle fondly.

"Help yourself, please," you tell her, blushing and yanking your hand away when you realize you're still clinging limply to her wrist. In all the excitement, though, she seems blissfully unaware.

Her eyes travel along the shelf, taking it all in, before she reaches one small, dainty hand in and plucks out a small package of almond-coated dark chocolate truffles. Her gaze shifts to meet yours. She looks uneasy. "Is it alright if I try one?" Her voice is barely a whisper.

"Of course!" You pipe up, a little too loudly considering the close proximity you're in. A blush creeps to your cheeks, but Elsa doesn't seem to mind very much. "Please, help yourself...I have, like, three other packages of those somewhere in here."

Elsa's expression is still unsure and so, so shy, so you smile gently and nod encouragingly.

Finally, she seems to accept your offer and pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and sits down, eagerly tearing into the wrapper. She pulls one of the truffles from the package and pops it in her mouth, rolling the chocolate around on her tongue and closing her eyes. You look back down at your textbook, mortified that you're watching her like some kind of sick pervert. Your ears are ringing and you can actually feel the tips of your ears going red with shame and embarrassment.

Elsa's eyes pop open again after a minute, and she smiles dreamily.

"So," you stammer, pushing a stray strand of strawberry blonde hair out of your eyes. "How do you like it?"

"It's wonderful," she hums, blushing a little and looking down at her lap. God, she's beautiful. No, Anna. No, no, no. Just focus on your stupid math.

You sit in silence as Elsa pops another truffle into her mouth and you stare blankly at the open textbook in front of you, willing the problems on the page to solve themselves.

"What are you working on?" Elsa asks softly, voice alarmingly close, and you jump when you realize she's moved from her spot at the table to stand behind you, peering curiously over your shoulder.

"Oh, just, um. Work. For math," it comes out in a nervous babble. "Wait. I mean, yeah. For math." You close your eyes and hope that when you open them you'll realize this exchange never actually happened because right now you are doing an excellent job of royally screwing up this conversation.

Elsa looks bewildered by your rambling, but she moves around your chair and looks closer at the problems in front of you. "Do you, um. Do you need any help?"

"You're smart!" you exclaim without thinking, wincing as Elsa flinches. You promptly bury your face in your hands, mortified. "Oh, my god," you mumble, humiliated. "I am so sorry, I didnt mean to yell or anything. Sorry. I just remembered, um. You're in the same AP Stats class as my friend. Sorry. I just, yeah. So sorry."

You poke your head up when you hear Elsa giggling softly. "Your friend?" she asks, returning to her seat and folding her hands in her lap.

"Yeah." You nod once. "His name is Kristoff. Kristoff Bjorgman. Big guy, you know? Blonde hair, looks like a friendly lumberjack?"

Elsa purses her lips as she thinks, before nodding quickly. "I think I know him. He's your friend?"

Relieved that she's seemed to forget about your complete lack of civility and knowledge of how to use an inside voice, you look back up at her, smiling. All things considered, this has been a fairly successful conversation, and it's certainly the longest you've ever spoken to Elsa without her clamming up. "He's kind of my best friend. He's a junior, too, he's just really smart."

Elsa is staring at her hands quietly, appearing contemplative as her eyes narrow slightly. After what feels like hours but is probably only a couple minutes, she looks back up at you, expression wary. "I could, well," she says quietly, fidgeting with one of the silver bracelets on her thin, pale wrist, "I could help you, if you, um. If you ever needed help. If you want," she adds quickly, suddenly looking like she's going to cry.

You blink a few times, stunned as your heart picks up pace in your chest. You feel giddy. "That would be great!" _Reel it in, Anna. _"I mean, are you sure?"

Elsa looks surprised but not displeased. "I'd be happy to." She offers you a tiny smile. "Here," she says, pulling a pen from her bag and reaching cautiously for your hand. You offer it up willingly and revel in her cool touch; it feels nice on your burning skin. She scribbles something in your palm, and it tickles but you try your hardest not to squirm. When she lets your hand go, you see she's written a number in it and you swear your heart stops.

"Just so, um. If you have any questions, you can just ask me," she says, again looking just as shy as you feel.

You open to mouth to say something but before you can utter a sound, you hear the sound of footsteps padding down the hall. Hans breezes through the doorway, freshly clothed with his dark hair still wet. "Ladies," he acknowledges you, but mostly he's just smiling at Elsa. You glare at the back of his head.

"Thanks for keeping her company," Hans tells you, and you frown a little because it's kind of rude, you think, for him to be talking _for_ Elsa. She may be quiet but she still has words; she doesn't need Hans to be her microphone.

Or maybe she does. You feel pang of jealousy as you wonder if that's what makes them _work_. Maybe Elsa likes him so much because he's like a mouthpiece for her, and maybe your attempts to coax her out of her shell just further her anxiety. You never thought about it like that, and you suddenly feel very, very guilty and just the tiniest bit jealous.

Hans is tugging Elsa out of the room, and she barely has enough time to cast you a soft smile and a, "Bye, Anna," before he's sweeping her out the door.

You manage to hide your grin for about two seconds before you're looking down at your lap and biting the inside of your cheek because you're so indescribably happy it feels like your heart is going to burst.

* * *

That night, you shuffle across the hall and knock hesitantly on Hans' door. As soon as you do, you realize this is a bad idea and turn to book it back to your room, but Hans is too quick.

"Hey," he mumbles groggily, as if he's already gone to sleep. "What's up?" The lights are all off in his bedroom. He must really have already been sleeping. A wave of guilt and embarrassment washes over you and you genuinely consider telling them that he's just sleepwalking and you've come to put him back to bed and pretend this never happened.

The words _Are you going to ask Elsa to homecoming?_ hover in your throat like a big butterfly but for some reason you're having trouble uttering them so you just mutter, "Nevermind, goodnight. Sorry for waking you," and hurry back to your room.

You should've asked. But Elsa told you not to, and really, why do you care so much?

You don't. You don't care if he takes her to homecoming or kisses her or whatever because she's his girlfriend and none of it is any of your business, anyway.

Pulling the thick comforter over your head, you close your eyes and wonder who, exactly, you're trying to fool.

* * *

"Oh, so you'll let her tutor you but not me? Not cool."

You snort and playfully nudge Kristoff, taking another long swig of soda from the flimsy white styrofoam cup. Nobody said bowling alleys were classy. That's a good thing though, maybe. You've never considered yourself to be an entirely classy person; you were not born to wear high heels and speak in short, eloquent sentences and have perfect hair every mornong. Besides, bowling with Kristoff on Saturday nights is way more fun than any of that other stuff.

"Shut up," you laugh. "You know that if I let you tutor me we would get absolutely nothing done. We've been over this before. By the way, it's your turn." It's true, but you wonder if having Elsa help you out is going to be any more productive. It is more than likely that you'll just end up ogling her for a couple hours while she attempts to explain a lesson to you.

"Whatever," he grumbles, standing up and grabbing his forest green bowling ball from the ball return. You roll your eyes at his dramatics but watch fondly as he swings his arm way too hard, balling hurdling down the lane about halfway before turning sharply and clunking into the gutter. Kristoff curses under his breath.

You're not much better, though, and by the time your ten frames are up you've score sixty five and fifty eight points, respectively.

"Wanna play another round?" You tease, and Kristoff glares at you, already pulling off his bowling shoes. A laugh bubbles up in your throat, but you force it down and you pat him on the back encouragingly. "Fine. Let's go get something to eat."

You go to the small food court in the back and talk for a while over French fries and burgers, swiftly changing the subject every time Kristoff brings up Elsa. You kind of don't want to think about it right now, because even the idea of Elsa is such a foreign concept and you don't want it to intrude on your bowling nights with Kristoff, which are one of the only things left that feel familiar and comfortable.

He walks you home afterwards, since it isn't too long a walk and the air isn't warm by any means but the cool wind feels good on your warm face and clears your head. Breathing deeply and exhaling, with Kristoff by your side, it's easy to pretend nothing is wrong.

About two blocks from your house, Kristoff stops abruptly in the middle of the sidewalk, hands shoved deep in his pockets. You crash right into him.

"Hey! What on earth...move, you big lug!" you demand, irritated, pounding your tiny fists against his broad back. He turns to face you, and even in the darkness of the night you swear he's blushing.

"I kind of have a question for you," he says, looking down at his feet. You shuffle closer, trying to look into his eyes.

"Okay," you say skeptically, raising your eyebrows.

"I, um," he sputters, and yeah, he's definitely blushing.

"Spit it out, Bjorgman!" you demand impatiently, foot tapping furiously on the ground.

"So, uh, Anna," he starts, grinning and rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Do you want to go to homecoming with me?"

* * *

THE ELSANNA IS COMING, FOLKS, I PROMISE. JUST BEAR WITH ME. but i mean, let's be real, that first scene was pretty cute. right? and i'm not just tooting my own horn. yet.

again, a big huge thanks to all my reviewers, followers (almost 140 of you...holy fuck), supporters, readers, etc. y'all rock and inspire me to keep writing.

your reviews are like chocolate to me. keep the chocolatey goodness coming so i can stay warm for winter, even though it's summer. shhh.


	5. Touch

**notes: **i want to give you all lots of hugs and chocolate and roses for being so awesome. this story is going to take some very dark turns soon but right now let's all just revel in the many opportunities for elsanna fluff and shy!elsa in general. i can promise you all that there IS an actual reason that elsa is the way that she is, and it will be explained soon...ish. or at least gradually. just keep in mind that their relationship has to build, and both girls have a lot of learning to do, about themselves and each other.

**warning:** the story takes a little bit of a dark turn here. nothing overly dark yet, but still.

* * *

_Sucker Love_

\- Chapter IV -

* * *

All you can do is stare. You're afraid that if you move or say anything everything is going to shatter, the walls of your world finally crumbling down and pinning you beneath them.

"Kristoff, I..." you trail off, because what are you supposed to say?

He holds up his hands, looking just as confused as you feel. "I meant as friends, Anna. Just friends, okay? Chill."

You choke out a laugh. Just friends. Of course, of course he meant it that way; why on earth are you taking things so seriously lately? It's so unlike you. Jesus, Anna. Get a grip.

"Of course!" You blurt, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand because you aren't crying but it sure as hell feels like you're going to, and you hate yourself for it. What is _wrong_ with you?

"Anna," he murmurs, eyeing you warily. It's clear he can sense your distress. "Are you alright?"

_No_, you want to scream. _No, I'm not. I'm not okay, and don't call me Anna, because I'm not her. I don't feel like Anna. I feel like I am coming apart at the seams and unraveling and I don't know how to sew myself shut without pricking myself with the needle and I'm so, so tired of being confused all the time. I'm so scared. _

Instead, you smile reassuringly and stand on you tiptoes to hug him, burying your face in his shoulder. It is warm and familiar and for a second everything is normal.

"I'm fine," you tell him, smiling even wider and praying that the moonlight doesn't reflect on your glassy eyes. "Of course I'll go to homecoming with you, Kristoff. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

Before he can answer, you quickly hurry past him down the sidewalk, towards home, heart caught in your throat and blood pounding in your ears, a chorus of _freak, freak, freak, you're a freak._

* * *

The air is thick with hairspray and perfume and anxiety when Hans' hand catches on your shoulder.

"Wow, my little sis actually looks like a girl for once," he jokes, smiling at you to make sure you know he's only teasing.

Frowning at him, you step back and gaze at yourself in the full-length mirror of your brother's bathroom. It's true — in comparison to any other day you truly look like a _lady _tonight, although you aren't quite sure if you like it. Your hair is braided and twisted into an elaborate bun, courtesy of your mother and quite a few how-to videos. The short green satin dress youre wearing actually makes you look like a woman and not a little girl, which is something you could definitely get used to. The girl in the mirror is not _Anna_, and maybe that's a good thing but it scares you more than you can even comprehend.

You shake your head, closing your eyes for a moment. When you open them, it's just you staring back. You're being silly. Your mother always said you had a wild imagination.

The doorbell rings then, a much needed distraction. You can hear your mother scurrying around downstairs; she might be more excited for this night than you and Hans combined. You hear the front door open, and your mother squeals.

"Anna!" She calls, voice floating up the stairs. "Your _date_ is here, and he looks absolutely ravishing."

You roll your eyes and make your way downstairs, the heels you're wearing clicking ridiculously against the wooden steps. Kristoff stands at the foot of the stairs with your mother, who is a dwarf in comparison. A fond smile creeps to your face.

And she's right: Kristoff _does_ look handsome, in a goofy, best friend kind of way.

"You look nice," you tell him honestly, smiling big becuase really, what could be better? You're going to homecoming with your best friend, and it's going to be so much fun.

"Ditto." He grins at you before your mother demands you pose together for pictures. She asks you to do a few 'couple-y' poses but you reject that notion. Instead, you have her take one of Kristoff pretending to benchpress you in the middle of the hallway. Then one of Kristoff doing the splits to the best of his ability while you giggle in the corner. Then one of you sliding under his legs while he laughs fondly. Finally, through tears of laughter, you attempt to recreate the lift from Dirty Dancing, but the camera only picks up on you falling head first towards the ground.

"You kids are too much," your mother says, rubbing her temples. "Really, you're too much."

The doorbell rings again, and your laughter fades away to make way for a yearning deep in your chest. Your mother sighs and opens the door wearily, revealing Elsa Arendelle, dressed in the tightest sparkling blue dress you've ever seen, standing there on your doorstep. Her hair is still in her usual side braid, bangs tucked backed messily, but she is beautiful all the same.

"Hans, Elsa is here!" Your mother calls up the stairs, smiling politely and nodding at Elsa before disregarding her completely. Anger bubbles in your chest.

"Hi, Elsa." You greet her with an extra-enthusiastic smile to make up for your mother' slack of manners. Elsa turns to you, eyes glittering, and smiling softly, waving shyly but keeping her distance. "Oh! And this is my friend, Kristoff."

Kristoff thrusts out a large hand for her to shake, and she takes it hesitantly, her already-tiny hand nearly disappearing within his. It does something funny to your stomach.

"Good to meet you," he tells her, and Elsa looks surprised.

"And you, as well," she says quietly, pulling her hand back just as Hans comes trotting down the stairs. He greets Elsa with a very large hug and a kiss full on the mouth. You look away while Kristoff titters uncomfortably.

Your mother takes a few photos of them together in the traditional couple poses (how very boring of them) and then a couple of you all together. You wind up next to Elsa, the two of you sandwiched between Hans and Kristoff, and at some point Hans loses his footing and Elsa stumbles into you, clearly embarrassed, unconsciously tucking her face into your neck when your mother steps another photo. And you think you hear the click of the shutter again as you gaze over at Elsa, eyes traveling up her lithe figure in a way that you wish you didn't have the urge to do.

It's not looking very good for you, what with there now being photographic evidence of you you standing arm-in-arm with your homecoming date whilst openly ogling your brother's girlfriend. Hans clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable and you lower your gaze to your stupid, too-high black heels, mortified.

Lately, you've been extra awesome at royally screwing up every possible good situation. At least one thing about you has remained constant.

It's small, and it's stupid, but you clutch onto it like a lifeline.

* * *

Homecoming is too hot and too crowded, a mess of bodies all pressed together as music blares over the crackling over the speakers.

It's like a slightly less expensive prom held at school instead of a hotel ballroom; $150 dresses and spiked punch and regret.

You stumble out of the gymnasium in an attempt to relieve your bladder in the bathroom, which results in you getting lost in the crowd out in front. It takes you something like ten minutes to find the bathroom and then another fifteen to navigate your way back to the gym, where Kristoff is waiting for you by the doors with a few people you vaguely recognize from your classes — a girl with long blonde hair whose name you can never remember, a boy with dark hair that keeps falling in his eyes and stupid smirk on his face (he goes by Flynn but you're pretty sure that isn't his real name), and a few other faces that are familiarly unfamiliar.

Your head is starting to spin, and you're starting to think you shouldn't have drank the punch, and also you're thinking that you want more punch.

Hans and Elsa win Homecoming King and Queen, naturally. Hans throws his hands up, rejoicing, and accepts the crown with a hoot of excitement. Elsa is a bit more...tasteful, to say the least, even when a girl with dark, curly hair named Meg — who your brother used to have the biggest crush on — is...or, was also up for Homecoming Queen glares at her, eyes shooting daggers. Just looking at the girl makes a part of you that you thought was dead and buried start to ache.

Elsa accepts her crown and sash with a dazzling smile but her hands are shaking a little and you wonder if anybody even cares enough to notice, but of course they don't, because they don't see _her_. They see a pretty girl, a cheerleader, an object and that's it. You see an enigma. You wonder if that's what she wants you to see, what she wants them to see.

Whatever was in that punch is making you think way too hard.

The lights dim again and Kristoff is holding out his hand, asking you for a dance and you accept but you close your eyes tight and press your face into his shoulder because your head hurts and your heart hurts and there's something wrong. Kristoff is talking to you, you can feel his chest vibrating with the words but you can't hear him, and you're starting to feel sick.

He's going to kiss you. Or maybe he isn't. Is he? You feel like you're on fire, but not like the fire Elsa brought you when she touched your arm. This fire is truly burning you alive, orange flames licking at your skin and charring yoy to the bone. The room spins, and you panic, wondering briefly what was in that punch.

"I'm sorry," you gasp suddenly, your hands against his chest, pushing him away. He looks at you, eyes full of hurt and confusion, and it hurts more than a punch to the gut. "I'm sorry," you say again, because you are, and you don't know if you're ever going to be able to say it enough. "I can't. I'm sorry."

And he's reaching out to grab your arm but you're darting away, tears threatening to spill. You shove your way through the crowd with a force comparable to a volleyball player spiking the ball, somehow losing one of your shoes in the process, like you're Cinderella or something.

Except Cinderella was sweet and kind and graceful and she certainly didn't shove the prince away when he kissed her. So, basically everything you are not.

After what seems like forever you reach the doors to the lobby, and you stumble out, catching the attention of a group of kids all huddled together against the far wall, cups of pinch in hand. They look at you with a concern that baffles you; surely you don't look that bad, right? Just kidding. You know you do.

The chilly night air hits you as soon as you open the door and you almost gasp in relief, pressing your back against the bricks of the building and sliding down to rest on the ground, drawing your knees to your chest and pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. Your dress is too short for you to be doing this, and the wind is ruining your hair, and you've lost one shoe and kicked off the other, and when you remove your hands from your eyes you know you've got makeup smeared all over your cheeks, but it's the best you've felt all night.

Tipping your head back, you close your eyes and breath in the cool air, willing yourself to imagine a world where you are normal and happy and you know what you want and who you'd like to be.

"Are you alright?" A familiar, quiet voice snaps you out of your reverie and back to the biting, harsh chill of reality.

Your eyes shoot open, and you are face to face with Elsa Arendelle. Startled, you yelp, and she skitters back, landing with a soft oof onto the concrete. Her eyes are huge like a fawn's, taking up almost a comical amount of her face as she studies you. She looks beautiful — frosty blue dress sparkling against her pale skin, which is riddled with goosebumps. She is everything you aren't at the moment; her hair is perfect, bangs slicked back and her makeup flawless, eyelashes dark and impossibly long. Her homecoming queen sash is slightly crooked, nearly sliding off her narrow shoulders.

"Are you alright?" she asks again, biting her lip.

"I'm fine." Your voice comes out croaky and hoarse — very convincing indeed, Anna. You clear your throat, trying in vain to tug your dress over your knees. When it doesn't cooperate, you shift your legs to the side so you aren't showcasing your lacy beige thong to Elsa Arendelle. "What are you doing out here?" you ask, voice harsher than you intended.

"I saw you run out, and I was worried. You looked upset." In a moment of boldness, she narrows her eyes accusingly at you. "Enough about me. What are _you_ doing out here?" Her voice is still painfully quiet, but firm this time, something you're so unused to hearing from her.

"Just wanted to get some fresh air," you mutter, twisting your hands in your lap.

Elsa sighs, her face all angelic innocence and her nose crinkling in adorable frustration. "You don't have to tell me," she says finally, looking you dead in the eye. "But I'm not leaving you alone out here." There is an aura of finality in her tone, and you believe her.

"Okay," you say, stunned.

"Alright." Her voice is soft again as she scoots over to sit next to you. You hold out a hand to stop her.

"You'll ruin your dress." It's a stupid thing to say, but it's the only thing that comes to mind and it's true, Elsa's dress is really pretty and she's going to get dirt and sidewalk grime all over it.

"It's not as if I'm ever going to wear it again," she assures you with a smile, placing a gentle hand on your arm. Yet again, her skin is cold but her touch is burning you from the inside out, because you're a girl and she's a girl and the look she's giving you right now shouldn't be making you feel like this.

"I think I drank spiked punch," you mutter lamely, pinching the bridge of your nose.

Elsa frowns deeply, eyes narrowing and for a minute she is terrifying, like her eyes could freeze a man, could stop him dead in his tracks. "You did?"

"Yeah," you admit sheepishly, pushing your bangs out of your face. You still don't understand what's gotten her so upset, but you're just gonna roll with it.

"Please be careful," she says quietly, lowering her eyes back to the ground and tracing patterns on the asphalt with her pointer finger. "I just...people can be silly sometimes, and I don't want you to get caught up in something and get hurt."

You blink, stunned. What on earth is she talking about?

"Let's get out of here," Elsa suggests gently after a while. "We can, um. We can go home and watch movies and eat chocolate and paint each other's nails and, um. And gossip." She giggles, pressing her hand to her mouth. She's the most beautiful when she smiles.

"You want to come to my house?" You ask, pleasantly surprised. There's a warmth in your chest, but you shove it down. You can't afford to get your hopes up, not wish somebody as unpredictable as Elsa. Even if you want to.

Elsa blushes, clearly misconstruing your question. Oh. She thinks you don't want her to come. Quickly, you blurt, "I want you to. I just want to make sure that you're, like, okay with it."

Elsa furrows her brow, a little dent forming between her pale brows. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I just. Uh. Nevermind." It's strange; one moment she looks like she's about to cry whilst talking to you and the next she's suggesting you two ditch prom inviting herself over to your house for a girl's night. Your ears are still ringing, and all this overthinking isn't helping.

She stands up carefully and offers you her hand. You take it, warmth against the cold, pulling yourself to your feet, and a single layer of the boundary that's been wedged between you since the day you met shatters like crystal, scatters across the pavement.

* * *

yay, bonding time! i am very much excited for the next chapter. drop me a review and let me know what you think? thank you guys so much, you're all wonderful. :) x


	6. Learning

**notes: **thank you all so much for your lovely words, favorites, follows, etc. i appreciate every single one; it means so, so much to me that so many people are interested in what i'm writing. thank you all, darlings, for the encouragement. i know i keep saying that and it's getting old but it's completely true; you are all so wonderful. and with that sentimental little note, i hope you enjoy!

* * *

_Sucker Love_

\- Chapter V -

* * *

"I never thought I'd end up walking home in the middle of homecoming at eleven at night with you, of all people."

Elsa gives you a look, eyes glinting in the dark. "What do you mean?"

You're walking side by side, arms brushing every so often and you pray that Elsa doesn't notice the goosebumps that keep popping up on your skin. Walking side by side, it's almost jarring coming to the realization that she's taller than you — somehow you must've known already but her quiet, meek demeanor have, up until this point, seem much, much smaller, like she could fit inside your pocket.

"I don't know. Nevermind."

She looks over at you skeptically, cocking a delicate brow but doesn't push the issue further, which you are grateful for, considering you're not entirely sure what you meant. Like, you know what you meant but somewhere between having the thought and saying it aloud the meaning got lost.

You stay quiet for the rest of the walk, and upon reaching your home it dawns on you, the realization that you're about to spend the night alone in your home with Elsa Arendelle. The heart palpitations definitely have nothing to do with this, except that they definitely do. Oh, god. Be cool, Anna. Be cool. Don't say anything stupid. If you do say something stupid, cover it up with a joke or offer her some chocolate.

The house is dark and quiet. Clearly your parents are taking advantage of their children not being home and having a night out themselves. Whatever. Better for you, then. You don't want your mother around Elsa with her frigid glares, you determine, feeling oddly protective over somebody you barely know who is also older _and_ taller.

Now that you're here, you're finding it kind of hard to get the ball rolling. So, you start out with the tried and true method: both yours and Elsa's weakness.

"Do you want some chocolate?"

She smiles. "Only if it's alright with you." She's so quaint and polite it would normally make you sick and/or feel completely inadequate, but this is Elsa, and she's different. You don't feel either of those things, because it's just how she is. At this point, you've grown accustomed to her stiff formality, which is why her initiating this entire rendezvous was such a shock.

"Of course it's okay, it's more than okay!" You smile brightly at her. Reel it in, Anna. "Just, uh. You can sit on the couch or something and I'll go get it!" you babble before nearly sprinting off to the kitchen, hitting your shin on a corner of the wall in the process and spending no less than five minutes lying on the kitchen floor, wallowing in pain and embarrassment. Finally, you pluck up the strength and determination to get to the pantry, grab a handful of different chocolates and hobble back to the living room, where Elsa is sitting on the couch in the dark, looking like she hasn't moved since you left.

"So," you start, sitting next to her on the couch and rubbing your bruised shin, wincing a little. "Let's be girls."

* * *

Thirty minutes later, you're sprawled out on a blanket on the living room floor, eating your weight in chocolate to ward off the impending headache from that punch while Elsa is sitting cross-legged on the couch in one of Hans' t-shirts, braiding and re-braiding her platinum blonde hair. _The Notebook_ is playing on the tv, because you're a sentimental sap, even though Elsa had cringed a little when you pulled it out of the DVD case.

"Oh! What would you like to watch?" you'd asked, embarrassed.

"No, no, it's fine," she'd assured you, but there was this little smile on her face, smug in a way you're not used to seeing, at least from her.

She's eaten a few squares of chocolate but you've torn through at least two bars already; you're too hungry to even be embarrassed. All of that crying earlier really wore you out. You hold out a square every so often to Elsa, offering her some, but she merely smiles pleasantly and shakes her head. She hasn't spoken much since you got home, the silence that you've grown accustomed to when dealing with Elsa returning. It's a little disappointing; she was so assertive earlier, you'd hoped that she would be a little more chatty now, but frankly, you're not going to complain because she's here in your living room with her makeup a little smudged and her eyes tired but she is perfect.

"Do you want some green tea?" you ask her through a mouthful of minty chocolaty goodness, too tired to be ashamed of your poor manners. Plus, Elsa doesn't seem to mind; her giggles assure you that she's more amused than she is horrified at your distinct lack of etiquette.

"I love green tea," she says with a shy smile, tying a band around the end of her braid and flicking the finished braid over her shoulder.

"Me too!" you gasp, most likely more excited than you should be. Again, though, Elsa doesn't seem to care. You like that about her. You like a lot of things about her. Her face, her eyes, her cute little nose, her smile, her hair, her hands, always delicate and flitting about, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ears or smoothing out her clothes or twisting in her lap. "I'll go get us some," you add, jumping up with an astounding amount of energy considering it's past midnight and you're used to going to sleep at, like, ten. At the latest. It's not your fault you weren't allowed to stay up past eight until you were ten. This is all on your mother.

After brewing two steaming cups of green tea - you give Elsa the pretty, delicate china with your favorite dainty little spoon and try not to think about what that means - you return to find Elsa sitting on the floor, looking at you expectantly. Unsure, you take a seat on the couch instead, in case she wants some distance, but she pats the floor next to her, motioning for you to come sit with her, and your stomach flutters as you lower yourself to the ground.

"So," she begins, smiling sincerely in a way that makes you feel things you've never felt before, "You and Kristoff."

You blink, stunned. "What about us?"

"You like him?"

"As a friend, sure. He's my best friend. But as anything else? Nooo, no, no...I just, can't even imagine it."

"He likes you. I can tell by the way he looks at you."

You narrow your eyes at her, not so much accusing as you are surprised. "You're very perceptive."

"I've had lots of practice watching people."

"What does that mean?"

"Nothing."

You shake your head, confusion rattling around inside your skull. There's just no figuring this girl out. All attempts to figure out Elsa Arendelle have just led to her becoming even more of an enigma. It's oddly endearing. If she's trying to play hard to get, it's working, but you're pretty sure that's not what she's doing. She's smart, but she doesn't play games. Or, at least you don't think she does.

It hits you that you really don't know very much about this girl at all.

"So," you counter, feeling ballsy. "What about you?"

"What about me?" She shrinks back, looking a little surprised; a wave of guilt automatically washes over you. You didn't mean to frighten her or anything, you're just so curious.

"Oh, I just. I don't know. Anything. Tell me anything," you blurt, handing her the cooling green tea and biting your lip nervously. You don't want to ruin this, you don't want her to shut you out again, but you also don't want to care about the prospect of her shutting you out. It shouldn't bother you nearly as much as it does.

"Um. I don't know what to say?" she purses her lips and smiles timidly, taking a tiny sip of tea and humming happily, eyes slipping shut. It's scary how lost you get in just watching her and all her subtle movements and expressions. It's like seeing a person for the first time. You normally don't notice such things, but you notice her, and you don't want to think about what that means.

You wrack your brain, trying to find a way to keep the conversation going. "Do you have any siblings?" It's a stupid question, but it's the best you can do.

She merely shakes her head, drawing her knees to her chest and holding her tea close. You can almost feel her drawing away from you, not just physically but mentally as well. She's closing up. Panic grips your senses. No. You have so much to ask her.

"Uh. Well, do you have any pets?" You make a mental note to google 'ways to keep a conversation going' tomorrow morning, because you are completely and utterly blowing it.

It seems to work, though, at least a little. Elsa's stature loosens and her face softens. "I have a cat. Named Marshmallow." She giggles a little, as if she's embarrassed.

You giggle, too, but not because it's funny. You're so relieved that she's opening up even a little bit, and the thought of Lakeview's resident Ice Queen, Elsa Arendelle, having a little fluffy kitty named Marshmallow is so precious you want to die.

"Do you know what you want to do?" you ask, huge stupid grin on your face. "Like, after high school?"

And, well, you're not sure what about that question is so off-putting but she shuts down again, expression tightening again as she mutters, "I don't know."

"Oh," you say, keeping your tone even and light, attempting to hold up your end of the conversation even if she won't. "Well, I think I'd like to be a photographer. I know it's silly, and I don't even like looking at other people's photography or anything, but I like doing it. The photography class in school sucks though. The teacher doesn't even show up half the time, which is cool and all, but I'm pretty sure he just leaves class and hotboxes his car at least three times a week." You're rambling now, but it's okay because that has always been your way of making yourself feel better: if nobody else will fill the silence, you will, because talking gives you less time to contemplate and realize how completely and utterly lost you feel.

Elsa is smiling a little again, though, so that's good. "I like to paint," she says quietly.

"Really?" you ask, taken aback. "Hans never mentioned anything about that."

She looks very, very meek all of the sudden. Like, more than usual. "I never actually told him."

"Really? Why not?" you urge her to share, scooting closer.

"I just, um. I don't know. It just seems like he wouldn't be interested? I mean, he's so busy with football and all his other stuff it just seems pointless to tell him."

"Hans is stupid. Boys are stupid," you blurt. It sounds so silly and childish that you giggle, and you catch Elsa's eye and she's giggling, too, and she is so beautiful.

"Does your mother hate me?" she asks suddenly, so quietly you almost don't hear over the sound of your laughter; you sober up immediately, looking over at her. She's gone very still, looking into your eyes, her icy blue ones glassy and full of childlike confusion.

"No, Elsa," you assure her immediately, reaching over to touch her hand in a gesture of comfort. She pulls back, uneasy, but the iciness of her skin lingers on your palm. Truth is, you don't know what your mother thinks of Elsa. Your mother has always been kind of uptight about new people coming into the lives of her children's, but you don't understand what it is about Elsa specifically that gets her so annoyed. "She doesn't hate you. I think she just...doesn't understand you. You're quiet, which isn't a bad thing! Believe me, I wish I could be quiet sometimes," you pause, laughing awkwardly. "Anyway, I think sometimes she just takes your shyness as rudeness or something like that."

Elsa looks wounded. "Do I really come off like that?" she whispers.

Your heart twists painfully. "No! No, you don't. I think everyone is just really dumb and can't see that you're super nice and not mean or rude in the slightest, and they just assume you're really stuck up or something but you aren't. I don't think you're like that. I know you're not."

Her eyes are still glassy, but she's smiling now. "Thank you, Anna," she says softly. The sincerity in her voice makes you want to cry, too.

This time, it is her who reaches for your hand. It is a gesture of thanks, of friendly affection, and you know this, but your heart is pounding in your chest and a million thoughts are racing in your head and right now, you're too sleepy to try to stop them.

You're both worn out and you come to a silent agreement that it's time for bed. You put away the almost-empty cups of green tea and throw out the many chocolate wrappers you've left scattered on the floor before hitting the light switch and curling up in the pile of blankets on the floor. Elsa is on the couch. You're separated by five feet of carpet and quite a few blankets, but it's the closest you've felt to her thus far.

"Goodnight, Elsa," you murmur, head clouded and limbs heavy with sleep as you nestle under the covers and close your eyes.

"Night, Anna," is the last thing you hear before drifting off into the first blissful slumber you've had in weeks.

* * *

It certainly isn't how you expected to start off your Sunday, but you're not complaining.

Elsa is on top of you, hands exploring your torso over the blanket that's still covering your body. She's kissing you, hard, Hans' shirt rucked up on her slim torso and hanging off her shoulder and you don't know what's going on but you're kissing her back anyway because really, why not? It's not like you haven't been fantasizing about this exact moment for a while now. You mumble something akin to what are we doing? but she just cuts you off with her lips, tongue poking insistently at your closed lips until they finally part.

This doesn't make any sense; what on earth is going on? Frankly, in all your daydreams up until now you've been the one on top of her, making her quiver and moan, but again, you've got no qualms about this particular situation.

Her lips move away from yours and you whine, but she ignores you and moves her mouth to your neck instead, sucking a bruise onto your collarbone; you'll definitely be wearing crew necks for a while.

"Anna," she murmurs, hands snaking under the covers and tugging impatiently at your nightshirt, reaching under it and caressing your skin. Her touch is like ice on your skin and you gasp, tilting your head back, finally freeing your hands to wrap around her waist because this is happening and you just want to feel everything. It's almost embarrassing how shuddering and desperate with need you are.

Her lips are back on yours, one hand resting flat on your stomach while the other travels down, down, down, fussing with the strings of your pajama pants and reaching beneath the waistband -

* * *

You shoot up from your spot on the floor, breathing raggedly with hair clinging limply to your face, eyes wide as your fingers curl in the blanket.

Beside you, Elsa remains still, still fast asleep and blissfully unaware.

* * *

in which i find any excuse to write some nice elsanna lovin', dream or not. mwah. x


	7. Pearls

**notes:** if i could name this story something else, i'd title it 'in which i provide lots and lots of fluffy fluff and then hit them over the head with some dark bullshit'.

on a lighter note, let's enjoy the fluff while we can, yes?

...even though...this chapter...is not very fluffy...but the next couple are intensely fluffy...so...idk

* * *

_Sucker Love_

\- VI -

* * *

By the time Elsa finally awakens from her slumber at a surprisingly early eight o' clock nearly on the dot, you've already sprinted upstairs, hyperventilated, showered, hyperventilated again, showered again, cried whilst in said shower, and promptly retired to the kitchen table where you sit with a full bowl of cereal in front of you, gnawing at your nails.

She stumbles into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes and yawning. Her blonde braid is a little messy but has remained impressively intact. Some of her leftover makeup is smeared around her eyes and she wipes at it, embarrassed. It would be kind of endearing if you weren't in the middle of a crisis.

You're afraid your entire body is literally going to combust from how hot your face is getting.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You had a sex dream. About Elsa Arendelle. Who is a girl. And also your brother's girlfriend. You don't have sex dreams, and even if you did you certainly don't have them about other girls, and even if you did have them about girls they certainly wouldn't be about your own brother's girlfriend.

It wasn't even a sex dream, really. It was, like. A PG-13 dream. Bordering on an R-rating. Or, it would've been if you hadn't woken up, your body's natural instinct to keep you from having a heart attack in your sleep.

"Good morning," she says gently, smiling sleepily.

You jerk from your seat, face burning in shame. The worst part is that she doesn't even know. "Morning!" you almost shriek, much too brightly, startling her. She flinches back, eyes narrowing in confusion. "How did you sleep?"

"I slept well," she says slowly, eyeing you cautiously. "How did _you_ sleep?"

Your heart nearly stops. She knows. She totally knows. Maybe she was only pretending to be asleep. Maybe she woke up when she heard you whimpering profusely in your sleep, most likely wriggling around like an idiot under the covers, and, to spare you the embarrassment, pretended to be asleep.

No. There's no way she could know. She was definitely asleep.

But when you turn to face her now it's hard to not imagine her on top of you, sucking bruises onto your collarbone.

"I slept fine," you blurt quickly, rubbing the back of your neck, fingers digging into the flesh there.

You've always known your heart was a fickle creature. You just wish that for once, it would set its sights on somebody you actually have a chance with. Preferably somebody who isn't already in a relationship. With your brother. And also preferably somebody who isn't Elsa Arendelle, because she's sweet as can be but her skin is ice cold and she harbors mysteries in those deep blue eyes and the idea of loving her is the scariest thing you can think of.

It is not so much that you're against the idea of being in love with a girl than it is the fact that you've never felt this way about another girl before, and it's new and scary and unfamiliar and you've never been good at adapting.

"Are you alright?" she asks skeptically, sitting across from you at the table.

"I'm fine! Completely fine," you assure her, fake smile stretched so big across your face that it hurts. "Honest."

Her expression darkens, the openness and eagerness in her eyes receding rapidly. She thinks you're blowing her off. Before you can assure her that no, it's not that, it's not that at all, she's almost curling in on herself, lowering her eyes to the table. Fuck. You fucked it up. You fuck everything up. Fuck. She's actually initiating conversation with you and you're being a complete asshole, all because you're letting a stupid dream get to you.

"Well, thank you for letting me spend the night," she says quietly, standing up abruptly. You follow her as she heads into the living room, gathering up her things and jamming them into her purse. "I'll be out of your hair in just a minute here."

"You don't have to g-"

"No, really. I understand. Have a nice rest of your day." She's pulling on her homecoming heels that contrast sharply with Hans' too big t-shirt that hangs off her narrow shoulders, her blonde braid messy with makeup smeared around her eyes. Her Homecoming Queen sash hangs out of her bag. "Bye, Anna."

You have to salvage this. You absolutely have to. "Wait, Elsa!"

She's already halfway out the front door but she pauses, one foot in the house and one foot out, turning to look at you. There's hurt in her eyes that you can tell she's clearly trying to conceal but you're getting better at reading her lately.

"Um," you begin, twisting a strand of strawberry blonde hair around your finger anxiously. "I was just. I was just wondering, you know how the other day you said you would help me with math?" She raises her eyebrows a little, but you maintain eye contact and continue. "I was just wondering if you're still up for it."

Her expression is still dark and emotionless for the most part, but there's the hint of a smile playing on her pink lips. "Sure, Anna. I'll see you later."

And then she's gone, closing the door gently behind her and you press your back against the wall and sink to the floor, the exact same position you were in outside homecoming last night, except this time there's no Elsa to come and hold your hand and lift you up and you feel so empty you could cry.

* * *

After yet another shower and feeling very pruney, you curl up in your sheets, wrapping them tight around yourself and dig around in your purse for your phone. It's at the very bottom, buried under lots of wadded up tissues and gum wrappers and lipglosses and drugstore receipts for said gum and lipgloss.

You stare at the black screen for a long, long time before turning it back on and scrolling through your contacts, where you, much to your disdain, have saved Elsa's number under her name with the stupid heart-eyed, drooling emoticon. It takes a lot of courage, but finally you select 'send message'.

With shaking fingers, you tap out a message. _Hi, Elsa. It's Anna. :) I just wanted to say thank you for keeping me company last night and I'm sorry if you felt like I was kicking you out this morning. I wasn't, I just have a lot on my mind lately. I hope you have a great rest of your day. :)_

Is it too much? Are there too many smiley faces? Should you even be sending smiley faces to her? Is it too friendly? Does it come off as flirty? Or maybe condescending? Too formal?

Before you can overthink it any further, you press 'send' and promptly throw the phone across the room. It hits the wall with an angry _smack_ and you burrow under your covers and try to convince yourself that the only reason you're shaking is from the cold.

From somewhere underneath your dresser, you hear your phone buzz. Shoving the covers off of yourself, you throw yourself out of bed and dive under the dresser, grabbing your phone and yanking it out.

Taking a long, deep breath, you open the message. It's from Elsa; your brain is spinning too much to read the name but you can still see that stupid heart-eyed emoticon and you just know it's her. You close your eyes, then open them, and read the message before you can scare yourself out of it.

_It's okay, Anna. That's what I figured. Thank you. I had fun. :)_

She used a smiley face. You promptly collapse into a fit of relieved giggles.

* * *

You're awakened from your slumber at four in the afternoon by the doorbell chiming. You rub your eyes and shake your head, confused. You must've taken a nap. You needed it. Trotting down the stairs, you tuck your hair behind your ears and cross your fingers, hoping maybe it's Elsa.

It's a stupid thought, but stranger things have happened.

Your prayers go unanswered, though, because lately it seems like they always do.

Kristoff is standing in the doorway, his blonde hair a mess with dark circles under his eyes. He doesn't look angry, like you feared he would; merely confused. This might be even worse. You can't do anything right. You feel like a monster. Every time you try to do anything you end up hurting the people you care about and its eating you up inside and you're not a bad person, you're not, except now you're not so sure.

It's a shame because you were feeling slightly better about this whole ordeal up until right now, and now the guilt is back to eating you alive.

"Hi," you say cautiously, biting your lip. You can feel your eyes welling with tears already, because this is Kristoff, your best friend, and you ditched him with no explanation.

"Hi," he says slowly.

And then the tears come. Lately it seems as if you've got a perpetual ocean of tears just waiting behind your eyes, and the dam keeps breaking over and over again. Kristoff looks stunned, but pulls you into a bone-crushing hug regardless. That just makes you cry harder, burying your face in his chest and most likely staining his cotton shirt, but he isn't complaining.

"Hey, don't cry," he murmurs, pulling away and resting his hands on your shoulders. The look he's giving you is so compassionate and sweet you cry even harder. You're scared you're not going to be able to stop. "Why are you crying?"

Choking out a laugh through your sobs, you hold up a finger and run into the house to grab some tissues. There are none downstairs, so you settle for some rough paper towels from the kitchen. After wiping your face you feel even worse, physically and emotionally. You're sure you smeared snot and tears all over your face, and you're probably bright red, and you feel so guilty you don't even want to go back outside.

But you do, because you need to fix one thing. Just one thing at a time. You can do this.

Kristoff is still waiting in the doorway, hands shoved deep in his pockets and concern written all over his face.

"Sorry," you mutter, wiping your face with your sleeve one last time. "I just feel really bad about, well, everything."

Kristoff sighs. "Listen, Anna. If you didn't want to go to homecoming with me, you could've just said so."

"No!" you retaliate, too quickly. "I did want to go with you. I just. I don't know, Kristoff. I'm sorry. I can't explain it. It's not you, it's me." He snorts at that, rolling his eyes. "Seriously. It has nothing to do with you. I'm just trying to figure some stuff out right now."

"What kind of stuff?"

"It doesn't matter, Kristoff."

"It does to me."

"I don't want to talk about this. I'm sorry."

Kristoff looks frustrated but not angry. You've never actually seen Kristoff angry, though. "Okay," he says, breathing deeply. "I'm sorry if I came on too strong. Friends?" Sheepish, he sticks out his hand in a truce.

You take it, warmth flooding your veins as your skin brushes his. It's the exact opposite of what you feel when touching Elsa, but that's not necessarily a good thing. The familiarity of it all is off-putting. No. No, you should want familiar things. You don't know what you want.

"Best friends," you tell him, smiling, relief washing over you as he pulls you in for another hug.

* * *

That night, you toss and turn and roll around in the sheets. Elsa is on your mind, but what else is new?

Elsa is many things. Your brother's girlfriend is one of those things, but she's so much more than that.

She is flowers in the spring, dripping with dew and smelling of new beginnings. She is the wind, the cold nipping at your nose. She is adrenaline flowing through your veins, the thrill of trying something new, something dangerous. She is a mystery. A puzzle

The thing is, up until now you've always pictured yourself loving somebody like Kristoff.

He is sweet like strawberry milkshakes in the summer. He is your favorite blanket, warm and familiar when even home has become a strange place.

You've always been a homebody. You've always leaned towards what is safe and what you know. Elsa is one of the first people you've met who appears to be more sheltered than you are.

Maybe that's why you're so intrigued by her — the sudden, undesirable urge to pull back her shell and peer at the pearls within.

* * *

thanks for reading, my loves, and please leave me a review, because each and every review is like a little tiny sunshine that i can read and then carry around in my pocket forever. not the best analogy, but still, i think you get the point. reviews make me a very happy little flower, and if you took the time to leave me one i would be most grateful.


	8. Cinnamon

**notes: **for the first time, i genuinely don't have anything to say, except thank you for reading.

also, this was supposed to be really fluffy but turned into a character study and turning point instead oOPS

* * *

_Sucker Love_

\- VII -

* * *

You lick your lips in anticipation, eyes glancing over the array of colors before you.

It's three in the afternoon on a Saturday, the air is thick with the smell of cinnamon and cream, and you've got at least six licked-clean sample spoons clutched in your hand.

Indeed, it never is a bad time for ice cream.

Especially not when this particular ice cream shop is where Elsa Arendelle is employed, and also it's ice cream, so it's kind of killing two birds with one stone. You like Elsa. You love ice cream. What could be better? You shift your weight into your left foot, killing time. Elsa is working today, she even said so. She'd said if you'd wanted to get together so she could help you with math you could meet her after her shift at work. Which, uh. Okay. She's just not out front, and you want her to be, and you'll wait around here holding up the line all damn day if you have to.

The girl behind the counter, whose curly, fiery red hair is tamed with a thick scrunchie and several bobby pins gives you an exasperated look. There are at least two groups of people behind you waiting, yet here you are, having spent the last ten minutes trying no less than ten different flavors of ice cream and asking too many stupid questions (the girl has made it very clear - multiple times - that 'waffle cone' is not a size.) She's kind of cute, in the way that grizzly bears or little baby cacti are cute.

You're standing here, making life harder for everyone just for your own selfish desire to see Elsa.

You've definitely been upgraded to low key stalker status.

With a sigh of defeat, you mutter, "Give me some time to think about it," and turn away, backing slowly out of line. The rest of those waiting let out an audible sigh of relief, and you glare at them as you slide into the seat of a small table by the window. Rude.

With you out of the way, Annie (aka red-haired girl whose name probably isn't actually Annie but her hair reminds you of Annie so you're gonna call her Annie, thank you very much) helps the rest of her waiting customers in under five minutes, scooping ice cream and making shakes with impressive speed and determination. Resting your elbows on the tiny round table in front of you, you heave a sigh and tap your foot against the colorful tiles, willing yourself to develop telepathic abilities so you can draw Elsa out of the backroom so she'll notice you and you won't have to spend any more time making yourself look stupid.

Finally, sucking in a deep breath, you stand up and walk slowly towards the counter again. The red-haired girl quirks an eyebrow at you, smirking a little and you would punch her if you weren't a hundred percent sure she could kill you with her bare hands.

"Excuse me, I was wondering if Elsa was working today?" You cringe as soon as you say it. You're so creepy. You should just leave now.

"Who's asking?" Annie asks, narrowing her eyes in suspicion and you fight the urge to turn on your heel and bolt out the door.

"Um. Anna."

Her eyes narrow even further until they're just two little blue slits, glaring at you. She says nothing but turns and heads into the backroom. Even from there, you can hear her say, "Elsa, some girl...Annie or Anna or something is here for you."

You frown. She's Annie. Not you. You're _Anna_. Not cool.

A soft voice says something by way of reply, one that you immediately recognize as Elsa's. Your heart soars; at least you know you're at the right place. Redhead comes back out, still eyeing you suspiciously but saying nothing. Elsa does not follow, and for a moment you're convinced that maybe she panicked and told Annie here to tell you to leave. Or maybe she's hiding in the back in the freezer or something.

But then you hear a soft click and the backroom door is opening and Elsa shuffles out, looking fairly flustered but certainly not upset by your presence. It's not fair how beautiful she looks even in her work uniform — ice blue shirt (while redhead has a bright red one) with plain black jeans, rolled up above her ankles and worn white sneakers on her feet with her black apron tied around her waist, smeared with ice cream. Her hair is still in her signature braid, though, and you fight the urge to run to her and embrace her because she's so damn gorgeous it feels like she might not even be real, like she's merely a figment of your imagination.

You turn gratefully to the red-haired girl and reach out to shake her hand. She gives you an odd look; is it too formal? Either way, she accepts tentatively, her hand warm and firm in yours despite working in an ice cream shop all day. You've only been in here ten minutes and you're already chilled to the bone.

"Thank you..." you tell her, eyes scanning the front of her apron for a nametag or something, which, in hindsight, probably looks like you're checking out her boobs.

"Merida," she says, smiling sincerely this time. She's got light freckles on her nose and eyes almost as blue as Elsa's. Merida. Pretty name.

"Thank you, Merida," you say, finally remembering to pull your hand back from hers. It takes you a minute to realize why you came here in the first place, but you are reminded as soon as a thin, cold finger is tapping your shoulder lightly. You whirl, coming face to chin with Elsa. Ah. You keep forgetting that she's taller than you.

"I'm going to take my break now, if that's alright," Elsa says hesitantly to Merida over the counter, like she's afraid the redheaded girl is going to say no. Instead, she simply nods understandingly, smiling brightly. You frown. So she gives that kind of smile to Elsa but gives you all the attitude? That's cool. Then again, you think it's probably hard to not treat Elsa like anything other than a porcelain doll.

"'Course," Merida says nonchalantly, grabbing a rag from under the counter and wiping down the glass. "I can take care of things for a while. Just be back by four, okay? Henry should be here any minute, anyway, so I'll have him to help me. If that boy is late again, I swear to god I'm going to haul ass to the corporate office and personally demand they fire his scrawny ass."

She reminds you of a fireball. She's like you, but...ballsier. You kind of like it. A lot.

"So," Elsa breathes, turning to you, "Can I get you some ice cream? It's on the house."

You nearly squeal before composing yourself, attempting to keep the stupid excited smile off your face. "Yes! I mean...uh, yeah, sure. Whatever," you finish coolly. Elsa gives you this little smirk that says that she can see right through your little charade and you sigh, defeated.

She's behind the counter, asking you questions like _which flavor?_ and _do you want some brownie in it too?_ and _yeah, we have that._

"So, I got us the biggest size we offer, and we're kind of only supposed to take one of these a day. Do you mind if we share?" she asks tentatively when she walks back out, and maybe you're going crazy but you swear she's blushing just the tiniest bit. "I only really want a little bit, promise."

It literally takes every ounce of self control for you not to shriek _Hell no, it's not a problem! Let's share every meal together! I can go get some spaghetti and we can be like Lady &amp; The Tramp! _But obviously you can't actually say that, so you just shrug and say, "It's cool. Doesn't matter to me."

She sits across from you, untying her apron and draping it across her lap and resting her elbows on the table. "So, what do you need help with?"

It just now occurs to you that bringing your books...or, like, anything at all would have been a good idea.

"You're gonna think I'm stupid," you blurt, feeling your face heat up. "But I literally left all my stuff at home. I'm so sorry, Elsa, I don't know what's wrong with me."

Elsa just grins, looking a little pleased. "You were that excited to see me?" And, woah. Where is all this bite coming from? It's not like you don't like it, because you totally do. Still, though. The way she said it was a little, uh, flirty. And you're probably overthinking it but really, what else can you do? She normally doesn't talk like that, and that factored in with the whole homecoming fiasco and your terrible awful sex dream just makes for a whole lot of confusion and also excitement, but you're not willing to admit the latter to yourself.

You can't let her know the truth, but you can't keep up this asshole charade either. You consider excusing yourself to go to the bathroom and hiding out in there until it's four and she has to go back to work, but that's stupid. And rude. She doesn't deserve you standing her up like that. Ha. Standing her up. Like this is a date or something. Which it isn't. It's a study date. But without the studying, because you forgot your books. And without the date.

Kind of like you stood Kristoff up. You're a shitty person.

"Anna?" her voice breaks through the walls you've been building around yourself since you got here. When you look up at her she's looking at you, concern written all over her gentle features.

"I'm fine," you say suddenly, wanting to curl in on yourself, like you've seen Elsa do so very frequently and in a moment of heart-seizing horror you wonder if this is how she feels all the time.

Looking sheepish, Elsa holds out a white plastic spoon, offering it to you. You take it, grateful for the distraction, and dip it into the scrumptious-looking ice cream in front of you, spooning it into your mouth and closing your eyes, humming in content. It's good. Really, really good.

"You did good, Elsa," you tell her, and immediately regret it. Why should she feel like she needs your approval? You're an idiot. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

Elsa doesn't seem to mind, though. She smiles brightly and takes a spoon for herself, scooping some ice cream into her mouth and pulling the clean spoon out from between her lips with a soft _pop_. It takes you a few seconds to realize staring at her with a dumbstruck expression is probably not helping your 'not in love with Elsa' case.

"So," she says softly, sticking her clean spoon back in her mouth and clamping it between her teeth. "Since we clearly aren't going to get any work done, how has your day been?"

"It's, uh. It's been good, I guess. I haven't been sleeping very well, and I couldn't sleep late because Hans woke up early for practice and he always makes a big racket whenever he gets up." You laugh a little, halfheartedly. "And I'm supposed to go bowling with Kristoff tonight. It's kind of a Saturday night tradition for us."

Elsa smiles coyly. "Ah, Kristoff. Are you sure you don't like him?"

"A hundred percent," you say bluntly, face completely blank.

"Alright," she says doubtfully, taking another spoonful of ice cream. She looks slightly embarrassed, looking down at her lap. "Sorry."

"It's fine," you tell her quickly, instantly feeling guilty for making her feel bad. She was only teasing. You don't know why you're taking everything so seriously. You're here with Elsa and you should be happy and relaxed but lately it seems like all you can do is panic and take things to heart and be a moody bitch. Seriously, people should be calling _you_ the Ice Queen. Not Elsa.

You quickly excuse yourself to go to the restroom, locking the door behind you and patting your face with your wet hands. Get a grip, Anna. Geez. When you return, Elsa is humming softly to herself a doodling on one of the shop's brown paper napkins with a black ballpoint pen. It's kind of adorable and endearing and - no, Anna. No. Stop that right now.

"So," you try, smiling a little and attempting to discreetly take a peek at her drawings as you slide back into your seat. "How's your day going so far?"

"It's been okay. Busy, you know," she says absently, looking up to smile at you and brushing a stray strand of blonde hair out of her eyes.

"Yeah," you answer, except you don't because you don't work in an ice cream shop, but. Whatever.

You sit in awkward silence for a while, swinging your legs anxiously under the table. You hit Elsa's leg on accident, and quickly say, "Sorry about that," blushing a little bit.

"It's no problem, Anna," she says quietly, eyes full of anxiety and concern. "Hey, Anna? I understand if you don't want to talk about it, but if there's something wrong, you can always talk to me."

"I know," you say quickly, because you do, but you're not sure if you'll ever be able to take her up on that offer because if you do, stuff it just gonna get weird and you'll be alienated from her and probably Hans altogether. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?" Her brow furrows. "You seem a little bit...off. I don't know. I'm sorry if I'm being too nosy."

No. "Yes, I'm sure. Thank you, Elsa, but I really have to go." You stand up suddenly, feeling your entire body sag with the weight of everything. "Thank you so much for the ice cream. I'll see you soon."

And before she can say anything you're turning on your heel and booking it out of there, yet another supply of tears prickling the backs of your eyelids.

* * *

You return again two days later, after school on a Monday afternoon, books on hand and guilt in your heart. You really need to stop letting your emotions get in the way of this potential friendship.

Elsa isn't there, though; in hindsight you probably should have texted her and asked if she was even working today. Merida is there, though, and since you're already here, well, you might as well stay a while. So you order a large chocolate ice cream with brownies and chocolate chips and also hot fudge because chocolate and also because you're a hundred percent ready to eat your feelings.

She hands your ice cream with a grin that either means she's happy to see your or that she spit in your ice cream. It could go either way. You take your ice cream with a muttered, "Thanks," and narrowed eyes, and Merida just laughs. You move over so customers can have their turn but you can remain standing by the counter so you can speak to Merida over it.

"So," she says, cocking a brow at you. "You're a friend of Elsa's?"

"She's my brother's girlfriend."

"Ah," she replies, raising her eyebrows, a look of amusement playing on her sharp features.

"What's so funny?" you ask defensively, taking another obnoxiously large bite of ice cream. God, it's good. You want ice cream for every meal. With chocolate. Chocolate ice cream with extra chocolate served with chocolate fudge and chocolate whipped cream in a chocolate-dipped waffle cone.

"Nothing," she counters, smiling slyly.

"Merida, why do you always leave the sprinkles out in the back? Seriously, it's not that hard to put them back in the walk-in when you're done," a voice groans from the back room. Merida just rolls her eyes, and you can't help but laugh a little bit.

The source of the voice comes marching out of the backroom in a very un-threatening manner indeed. He's a scrawny kid with freckles splattered across his nose and cheeks (are freckles a thing here or what? These ice cream people must be your long lost siblings) and eyes as green as the forest. His hair is shaggy and he's probably even shorter than you are. He scowls at Merida. "Pick up your mess."

"Show up to work on time, _Hiccup_," Merida counters, cackling when the boy glares at her.

"Can we _please_ just leave that name in the sixth grade where it belongs?" he growls, crossing his arms and retreating into the back.

"Hiccup?" You raise your eyebrows in a combination of confusion and amusement.

"Long story," Merida says with a shrug. "The kid and I go way, way back. Like, so long back I could keep you here all night and you still wouldn't know half of it."

You let out a genuine laugh, feeling more at ease than you have in weeks. You decide then that you like Merida and her snark and her Annie hair.

"I should probably get going," you say with actual regret as you finish your ice cream. You really don't want to go back home and be left alone with your thoughts in your empty room. "I'll probably come back soon, though. Gotta get my ice cream fix."

Merida grins at you. "Alrighty. I'll see you around, Anna."

"See ya." You're grinning so wide your jaw is starting to hurt.

She gives you a wave and a tiny little salute as you walk out, feeling strangely safe and warm all over.

* * *

The next week, Elsa is absent three out of the five days.

You know this because Hans won't stop complaining about how much school sucks without her, and also keeps questioning how she got pneumonia and he didn't because they make out so much because, you know, she's his girlfriend. You have to resist the urge to gag every time he talks about it. You also know Elsa is absent, though, because you always, always, always see her in the hallway on the way to English. Not because you're stalking her. She always says hello to you then, anyway. It's not stalking if she pleasantly acknowledges you every time, right? Right. Probably.

"Maybe the Ice Queen got so icy she needed a break from all of us peasants for a while," Kristoff jokes, nudging you with his elbow. You smile halfheartedly, but you know it doesn't reach your eyes and Kristoff notices because he notices everything. "Earth to Anna," he says, waving a large hand in front of your face. "What's going on?"

"Nothing," you say quickly, swatting his hand away playfully. "I just, uh. I hope she's okay."

"I'm sure she's fine, Anna. "Like I said. Ice Queen. She's probably got magical healing powers or something."

You roll your eyes, not in the mood for jokes. Instead, you put your head on your desk and try to catch up on sleep.

* * *

You're lying on your stomach atop your comforter on a that afternoon after a nice, long shower, crossing and uncrossing your legs and daydreaming when it happens.

Your phone rings, and Elsa's name flashes across the screen. You consider sending it straight to voicemail, but in a moment of weakness, answer it instead.

"Hello?" Your voice comes out more tentative than you'd intended, and you cringe a little in embarrassment.

"Anna," Elsa gasps, her voice low but raspy and choked with emotion. It doesn't sound quite like pneumonia, but it does sound like she's been crying. "Anna, I'm sorry, but I really need your help. I don't know what else to do. Please."

* * *

if this chapter had a title it would be 'in which i find an excuse to write about the woes of working in an ice cream shop' because i've worked in one for almost a year now, and, well. i get my inspiration where i can, folks.

also, i am beyond excited for the next chapter. mwaha. this is the part where i actually follow up on my promises of angst and the slow unraveling of elsa's many, many mysteries.

ps i love you all so very much, little snowflakes. your support keeps me going. it's like my crack, if i did crack. be my dealers.


	9. Fractals

**notes:** let the fun begin. don't worry, kids. there is still much fluff to be had. just...not yet. ps, your reviews for the last chapter were amazing and some of them were also hilarious. sorry i left you with that cliffhanger but...the new chapter is here now, so yay? also, i loved reading your guys' guesses. i really need to just start individually replying to all of my reviewers because you guys deserve it for being so lovely. perhaps this chapter.

anyway, enough rambling by me. (and i promise, we certainly haven't seen the last of merida or hiccup...and there'll certainly be more characters introduced soon.)

ANYWAY. enjoy the show, folks! x

* * *

_Sucker Love_

\- VIII -

* * *

"Elsa, what? What's going on?" You feel panic rising in your throat and you swallow it down, eyes watering when you taste bile.

"I can't," she whispers, and you can almost imagine her there, wound up corkscrew-tight, eyes clenched shut and tears sliding down her pale face. "I just can't. Please, Anna. I didn't know who else to call. Please."

You don't know what to say. Your head is spinning. "What do you mean? What's going on? Are you hurt, Elsa? Did you try calling Hans? I'm sure he would be more help than I co-"

"No," she cuts you off sharply, coldly. A chill creeps down your spine, making you shudder. "Please don't tell him anything. Please. Just...please. Please come over. Now. Please." Her voice is soft and pleading and you can tell she's crying again.

"Okay, okay," you agree just to calm her. She gives you her address in a low, trembling voice.

Not being able to drive makes things a little tricky, so you call Kristoff.

"What's going on?" he asks you when you slide into the passenger seat of his truck not ten minutes later,

Surprisingly, the address she gave you does not lead to a palatial white mansion or a beautiful Villa-style home, but an old apartment complex on the outskirts of town. It's dull and dreary and sad, the roof sagging and paint chipping, colors muted and dull. This can't be right. For a minute, you wonder if you're being pranked. If all of this has been one giant setup, getting close enough to Elsa that when she calls you in frantic tears you have no other option than to rush over and see what's going on, only to be brought to an old, shady apartment complex with dying flowers lining the edges.

You're about to turn away and clamber angrily back into the car, prepared to rant all the way home about what horrible, lying assholes Hans and his friends are when you see a curtain pulled aside in one of the upstairs window.

Lo and behold, it is none other than Elsa Arendelle peeking out, blue eyes wide with fright and desperation.

It takes you approximately ten seconds to scurry across the road and begin your ascent up the cement stairs, tripping once or twice on your way up in your haste. You bang on the apartment door; the sound is hollow and sad and you shiver, pulling your coat tighter around yourself. No answer. From inside, there is a soft thud and the sound of breaking glass.

You're about ready to go Hulking Football Player on the door when you twist the knob and realize it's unlocked, and, well. That makes your job a whole lot easier. The door chain is still attached, though, so you have to scrabble around with your arm inside for a good minute until you're finally able to pull it out and stumble into the apartment. The air is chilled; October is a little late to be keeping your AC on, isn't it? You've already started using the portable heater for your room.

"Elsa?" you call to the empty air, staggering into the living room. It's empty, and tiny, with a tiny black futon in the corner and a few fake potted plants near the sliding glass door. One of the plants has been knocked over, its soil spilling out onto the stringy white carpet.

No answer.

Shuffling down the hall warily, you try again. "Elsa?"

A choked sob breaks the stillness. You follow the noise to a shut bedroom door. It's practically radiating frost to the point where even pressing your palm against it to push it open it painful.

The scene inside Elsa's tiny bedroom is something straight out of a nightmare, burned into your brain like overexposed snapshots.

You close your eyes, open them again. The scene before you remains the same, and panic bubbles up in your throat and seizes your limbs and brain and heart, paralyzing you.

The mirror hanging on one wall has been blown out, glittering shards littering the carpet around your feet. Elsa is curled in bed, covers wound tightly around her body, sobs wracking her tiny frame. The wall behind the mirror is covered in cobwebs of pale blue, ebbing out unevenly and covering almost the entire wall as if a spider queen has chosen none other than Elsa's wall to create her intricate, spindly web. Upon further inspection, your fingers curling tentatively against the surface, you're horrified when you realize that it's _ice._

Elsa's wall is covered in ice.

It's only October and there's no logical reason for her wall to be covered in ice at _any_ time, really, but certainly not now, and your head spins as you desperately grasp at metaphorical straws, mind trying to wrap around the fact that there's ice all over her wall and why is it there, and why is Elsa crying, and the windows are all shut tight but it's so _cold_.

Something deep inside you twists as things slot into place as others fly right out the window, but you shove it back because you don't even want to consider the things that are coming to light inside your head. Suddenly, your skin feels too tight, your skull too small, like your pounding brain is just going to shatter the bone like glass. Like ice, all over the floor. Like the ice covering Elsa's wall.

"Elsa?" You speak quietly, carefully, like you're afraid of spooking her as one would spook a deer or a little bird. You are, to be honest. "What happened?"

She lets out a long, rattling breath before looking up at you wish glassy blue eyes, wrapping her long, skinny arms around herself and whispering, "There's something really wrong with me."

* * *

"Elsa," you say slowly, sitting cross-legged on the floor across from Elsa where she's perched on the edge of the futon, cup of untouched green tea you made for her in the tiny microwave in the kitchen in her shaking hands. "I know you're a little freaked out right now, but I need you to tell me what happened."

It's quiet for a moment, before she lets out a loud, broken sob, the mug in her hands sloshing droplets of tea onto the carpet from the force of her trembling. "I don't _know_."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't know," she hisses through clenched teeth, setting the mug on the carpet before she spills any more tea and covering her face with her hands. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Anna. I need you to help me."

You breathe deeply, forcing your frustration to the back of your mind and reaching out gently to place your hand atop hers in a gesture of comfort and affection. Elsa flinches away almost instinctively. "Elsa," you try again, desperation leaking into your voice, "I can't help you if you don't tell me what happened."

"I'm crazy," she whispers, drawing her knees to her chest. Her makeup is smeared all over her cheeks, smudges left on her eyes, and her braid is sloppy, stray bits of white-blonde hair sticking out at odd angles and hanging in her face. Her chest is heaving and her hands are shaking and you don't know what to do. You're scared, truly, and if it was anybody other than Elsa you think you would probably run out of the apartment before she could even stop you. "I'm...I, I just..." she trails off as another sob wracks her tiny body.

The feeling of helplessness is almost unbearable as you sit there, hands in your lap, head spinning and tears burning your eyes because you don't know what else to do.

"Should I go get Kristoff? He's in the car."

Elsa just shakes her head rapidly. "Please, no."

Deep breaths, Anna. Deep breaths. "Then what would you like me to do, Elsa? I want to help you, I do, but you're not giving me much insight here."

"I just want it to stop," she sobs, clutching her head in her hands, nails digging into her scalp, making little red crescent marks in the pale flesh there. You reach out to pull her hands away but she yanks back again as if you're on fire. "Don't touch me!" she demands, eyes widening. "Please. I don't want to hurt you."

You furrow your brow. "Hurt me? Elsa, how would you hurt me?"

Elsa bites her lip, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her sweatshirt. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

She takes a deep breath, chest rising and falling gently as she twists her hands nervously in her lap. She's staring down at them with this bizarre look of horror and fear on her face, like they don't even belong to her. Eventually, she shoves them deep into her pockets. She opens her mouth, then closes it.

And, just as she's about to speak, the tiniest bit of a squeak coming out from between her parted lips, the apartment door bangs open so loudly you both scream a little. You jump back about a yard in a split second, which is kind of impressive. Or it would be, if you cared, but you don't because there's this little old woman with a scratched black cane and grey hair hobbling in, clutching plastic grocery bags in her wrinkled hands and eyeing you both suspiciously.

"Grandma," Elsa breathes, shooting up from her place on the couch and taking the bags from the woman's hands and helping her the rest of the way through the door. You frown a little when you notice Elsa's hand on the cane, and the slick ice beneath it, as if the top half of the damn thing's been frozen over. It's not that cold out, is it?

"Everything all right in here, Elsa?" she asks, but Elsa says nothing and you stay quiet too because really, you're not too sure.

You're dreaming. You must be dreaming, because nothing makes sense and you'd like to just curl up on the carpet and sleep because you're so bewildered and so cold.

As soon as Elsa's grandmother is steady on her feet, Elsa scrambles down the hall and you hear her slam her bedroom door shut.

"Anna," she says blankly as she returns to the tiny living room, slipping gloves onto her slender fingers and clenching her fists. "I think you should go."

"What!?" you sputter, completely and utterly flabbergasted. "Elsa, are you serious right now?"

"I'll walk you out," Elsa replies calmly as if you haven't even spoken, no trace of emotion on her pale features. "Come on."

And then she's marching over to the door and opening it, gesturing you outside, and you have no choice but to shuffle out, mortified. Much to your surprise, though, Elsa follows you out and closes the door behind her, holding the handle like she's afraid her grandmother is going to come back out. All of this is so bizarre and unlike her your stomach is a mess of knots and worries. It's not warm outside by any means but it feels like a nice day on the beach in summer compared to what the apartment felt like and that scares you more than it normally would.

"Elsa," you nearly yell in the tiny space between your faces. "What the hell? Seriously? You call me over and there's ice all over your fucking wall for god knows what reason, and then you won't tell me what the hell is wrong, and then you kick me out?" You shock even yourself. You normally don't use such words, especially not aloud. Nor do you yell. And even if you do yell, you never thought it would be at her. But the thing is, you can't help it. You're beyond mad. You're livid. And to top it all off you're so, so puzzled and you thought things would get easier but they're just getting harder and you can't help the tears that come.

"Anna," Elsa whispers, and now her eyes are brimming with tears, too. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I should never have called you over here; it was a mistake. I'm such an idiot. I'm sorry. Please. Just go. I need to go, and I need you to go. Just...get out of here. It's not safe."

"I'm not leaving until you tell me what's going on," you growl through your tears in a very non-threatening manner. It's not fair, because she picked you when she could've picked anyone else, she picked you over everyone, even Hans, and for a split second you thought you were special but you're not and you're so humiliated you could die.

Elsa's pleas become desperate. "Please, Anna. Please go. Now."

Before you can protest any further, she's hurrying back inside and slamming the door in your face. The cold from inside leaks out in the split second it takes her to get back inside, biting at every inch of your exposed flesh.

In a daze, you walk back to the car, where, naturally, Kristoff has fallen asleep in the goddamned driver's seat. You pound on his window for a good three minutes, getting more and more frustrated that he still hasn't woken and soon there are more tears coming because you're so fucking frustrated and angry and you don't know what's going on and you just want to get inside the car, fuck -

Kristoff shoots up just then, rubbing his eyes frantically before glaring at you through the window. You glare back. Unlike his, your scowl is not friendly or playful. He notices.

When you slide into the passenger seat, he immediately asks you, "So, what happened? Is everything okay?"

For something like the fifth time today, you burst into tears. Alarmed, he gathers you in his arms and just holds you as the seemingly endless supply of tears falls from your eyes, your heart twisting and turning in your chest and a lump the size of a grapefruit in your throat and it makes you cry even harder when you realize that even when you close your eyes all you can see is Elsa's icy wall and glass-strewn carpet and her terrified blue eyes and her broken wails of _there's something really wrong with me._

Somehow, it feels like you've always known Elsa was different.

* * *

not an overly long chapter, but i had a very specific place i wanted to end this, so. i still hope it was worth the wait, though! you're all absolutely lovely, thank you so much for the support.

reviews are very much appreciated, kind of like the worker at the ice cream shop appreciates you knowing what you want when you get to the front of the line instead of making the rest of the twenty people in line wait while you decide for ten more minutes.

just saying.

also, there is much more to be learned about elsa. i promise. mwah.


	10. Sinner

**notes:** as expected, i know a few of you are a little disappointed that this modern au doesn't exclude elsa's powers. my goal, though, is to make this a realistic story with realistic feelings and relationships and trials...all while having elsa still have powers. i hope i'll be able to do that for you, but i completely understand if it's not really your thing.

i am, however, thoroughly happy with how this chapter came out. thank you all so much for your amazing feedback, all of it. you guys never cease to amaze me and make me smile.

**warnings**: much darker themes. there is fluff coming, folks, i promise. just...not yet.

* * *

_Sucker Love_

\- IX -

* * *

Your heart is pounding like cymbals, crashing like waves, the sound pulsing against the shell of your ears, head throbbing.

You're running, the gravel sliding under your sneakers and the chilly night air biting at your ears and slipping through your hair. You're running, and you don't know why, but you've just...you've got this instinct that something very, very bad is coming after you and so you run faster, breath coming in short, quick gasps and you can feel your lungs getting cold.

The faster you run the less distance you cover, it seems, as your muscles tense against your will and you can feel your fingers forming claws, freezing in place, and then you stop moving altogether. You scream when you feel ice crawling up your legs, turning you into a human ice sculpture in the middle of nowhere, and you flail and struggle and strain against it but your attempts are futile as the ice reaches your throat, and you can't _breathe_, because you're so _cold_ and the ice is clamping down on throat, squeezing tighter and tighter and then it's covering your mouth, your nose, your eyes and you can't breathe or see or blink or move or even scream and your intense panic is making it hard to even think.

And all at once, you can breathe and you scream, voice piercing your own ears and then the ice is shattering and clattering against the cement, forming little ice crystals in the dark before disappearing entirely and all that's left in their wake is Elsa, on her knees on the ground with ice swirling in her palms and her eyes a mixture of menace and terror with blood smeared across her cheeks and it feels like you've been punched right in the gut.

You wake up screaming, hair clinging to your face and a heavy weight settling itself on your chest, curling around your throat and squeezing tighter and tighter until the whole world goes dark again.

* * *

You start to wonder if things are ever going to feel normal again, or if you will ever look at anything the same.

You are infected, visions of ice freezing your veins, spreading from cell to cell like acid. You are coming apart at the seams. If you weren't sleeping well before it's nothing compared to now — night after night spent shuddering in the dark, tossing and turning as questions burn at your brain, lighting the inside of your skull on fire and you are burning alive.

Elsa can control ice. Or she knows someone — or some_thing_ — that can. Though control feels like the wrong word to use, because the fear in her eyes and the trembling of her hands and the panic in her voice suggest anything but control, anything but the knowledge of what she is capable of. _There's something really wrong with me_, she'd said, and the power of her words make your stomach ache with desperation to help her.

Whatever it is, she is afraid of it. It's controlling her, not the other way around, and she is terrified.

You are not a science-y person, not by any means, but you've never believed in magic, either, if that's even what this is.

Elsa is your brother's girlfriend, and she's beautiful and shy and quiet and, oh, yeah, she holds ice in her fingertips, and she's a danger not just to others but herself, and the reality of it all comes crashing down onto you, crushing you beneath its unbearable weight, the truth that Elsa is more than what she appears and you can't help her.

Your fingers curl into your sheets and you burrow further under the covers, closing your eyes and imagining a world where things are always what they seem.

* * *

You show up to the local ice cream shop with ten dollars shoved into the pocket of the old, faded jeans you're wearing, a headache, and the desperate need for a friend.

"Can we talk?" you blurt to Merida as you approach the counter. Luckily, there aren't many customers, though it's to be expected with the rapidly dropping temperatures as the leaves on the trees all turn burning red and drop to the ground, crunching under your sneakers and winter nears.

"I'm kind of working," she says slowly, eyeing you cautiously. "I get off in half an hour. You look like shit, by the way."

You glare at her, huffing and blowing a stray strand of hair out of your eyes. "Thanks, I hadn't noticed. Can I please just talk to you for a few minutes? Please? I will literally pay you." You slam the ten dollar bill onto the counter, and her eyes widen._  
_

"I'm not supposed to do this," Merida sighs, biting her lip in uncertainty before disappearing into the back without another word.

She reappears a moment later at the backroom door, holding it open for you and waving you in impatiently. The room is smaller than you'd thought it would be — just a computer and small desk at one end of the room, a steel table in the center with walk-in freezers on either side of the room, extra supplies stacked on shelves that nearly touch the ceiling. Other than that, the room is wholly unspectacular and very much not what you'd pictured the backroom of an ice cream shop to look like. Henry is standing on the other side of the table, attempting to decorate a cake but mostly just making a ridiculous mess, buttercreme smeared all over the table's surface and his clothes.

Merida slumps into the rolling chair by the computer, gesturing for you to sit in one of the wooden chairs they must've taken from the lobby.

"So what's on your mind, eh?" she asks, undoing her apron with a huff and tossing it onto the desk where it lands in a crumpled heap.

"Nothing. Everything."

"Ah," Merida raises her eyebrows skeptically, rolling her eyes and taking a long swig of her drink that's sitting on the desk, probably a little bit too close to the computer. "Care to elaborate?"

Blinking, you sit upright in your chair, resting your elbows on the table and your chin in your hand, and look her dead in the eye with a decisive breath.

"Tell me everything you know about Elsa."

Merida looks confused, and, if you're reading her expression correctly, almost a little bit disappointed. "What about her?"

"Anything," you blurt. "Everything. Has she ever mentioned...I don't know, like, getting struck by lightning or something else that would give her magic powers overnight? Or maybe she's a wizard. Oooh, a wizard. Never thought of that before."

Merida just looks at you like you've grown two heads, pressing her lips into a thin, concerned line. Without another word she stands up and disappears to the front of the store and returns a couple of minutes later, a cup of ice cream in hand.

"Eat," she instructs, voice gentle but their is an air of sovereignty in her tone and expression. "I think you might be going crazy."

You dig in gratefully, spooning the ice cream into your mouth at an animalistic pace.

"When did you last eat?" she asks, flopping back into the chair and eyeing you cautiously. It's like how your mother looks at you when you're under the weather. It's nice, coming from someone who isn't required to actually care about your well-being. "You're looking kind of gaunt there, girl."

It's probably true. You've noticed it; your usually rounded cheeks are starting to look sunken in, the ridges of your spine more prominent than usual and your jeans are starting to sag in weird places. It's frustrating. You shake your head, discouraged. "Don't remember. This past week has been a blur, honestly."

Merida frowns at you. "What's been going on? Did something happen between you and Elsa?"

You bite your lip in contemplation. "I honestly don't know." With a sigh, you finish your last bite of ice cream and stand to go. "Sorry for wasting your time."

"Hey, Anna," she says, standing up and grabbing your wrist. "Whatever it is, I hope you start feeling better. You're much prettier when you're happy." As a blush creeps to your cheeks, she covers her mouth with her hand. "Shit. Sorry." And without warning, she pulls you into a hug. She's so _warm_, and unconsciously you lean further into her embrace, her arms wrapped tight around your shoulders. She smells like cinnamon and fabric softener. It's nice.

"Thank you," you breathe, truly grateful. "For everything. For letting me in, for the ice cream, and the hug...just, everything."

You exit the shop into the biting autumn air, feeling warm and tingly all over.

* * *

After a week and a half of being missing, Elsa returns to school looking gaunt with dark, bruising half-moons under her eyes that match yours perfect and the long sleeves of her oversized sweatshirt covering her hands. Her pale hair hangs long down her back, messy and unbrushed. Naturally, everyone notices but since they aren't you, they assume it's just a temporary result of her pneumonia.

You are the only one who knows the truth. You are alone. In the hallway when you see her, it's like the entire building is empty and it's just you and her, eyes locked; hers are full of guilt and exhaustion and fear and yours are almost a mirror image of hers. In this respect, you are the same.

You almost feel bad, because no matter how alone you feel she's the one who's truly alone, standing on a solitary slab of ice in the midst of endless churning waters, eyes full of fear as she glances over the mess she's made.

* * *

It's a Saturday and you've never been this humiliated in your entire life.

Now that Elsa has fully recovered from her "pneumonia", Hans has been having her around again.

On this particular day, your parents are out shopping for new cabinets and you assume Hans has decided that he missed Elsa a _little_ too much, because on your way to the kitchen for a snack you nearly run smack into them in the hallway. He's got her pressed up against the wall and you almost die right there.

It's doesn't seem so much non consensual at it does that Elsa just isn't into it; her arms are mostly limp by her sides, like she's still afraid to touch him and you realize for the first time that not even Hans knows about her. It's just you. You forget about your snack and bolt upstairs, cheeks burning and lock your door, burying your face in your pillow. There are footsteps coming up the stairs and you're really starting to think that if there is a God, he really, really hates you.

And the worst part is that you can hear them; not in detail, but you can hear soft little moans and whines coming from right across the hall and you know they belong to Elsa and heat throbs between your thighs. You press them even further together, biting your lip and turning the page in the book you're still pretending to actually read.

Tears are stinging your eyes and the words on the page blur together as a sob threatens to erupt from your chapped, parted lips.

You don't want to be gay, and you don't want to be in love with Elsa Arendelle, and right now you kind of don't want to be alive because guilt and confusion and desperation are rocking you to your very core and you're drowning in the midst of the ocean, surrounded by people who are too naive or too blind or too ignorant to notice you're in trouble.

You're infected. You're infected by her, with her, with her ice and her secrets and the fucking fear in her eyes and she's inside you, she's hurting you, and you want to pull her into your chest and keep her warm and safe but you also want to rip her out, pry apart your ribs one by one and extract her from where she's wrapped around your heart, squeezing tight. She's hurting you. Somehow she's wormed her way into every aspect of your life without trying and this has never happened to you before and the fear makes you want to puke.

As another whispery whine can be heard from over the hum of the heater, you imagine Elsa, splayed out beneath you, bare and writhing, blue eyes full of innocence and for the first time you don't want to preserve that innocence; you want to absolutely ruin her until she's falling apart underneath you, your thighs on either side of her waist, your fingers dipping under the waistband of her panties, fingers gliding up her creamy skin and you moan unexpectedly, clamping your mouth shut tightly.

You're not a spiritual person but you tip your head to the ceiling and think _I'm sorry, forgive me, I'm sorry_, and even then you wonder how any God could force someone as lovely and harmless as Elsa to harbor such a painful secret. Then, you start to wonder if Elsa is really as harmless as you think she is.

Your hand is shoved down the front of your jeans now and it's so, so embarrassing because you've gotten yourself off before but never to thinking about somebody you knew, and especially not a girl, and especially not Elsa. You close your eyes and you can imagine everything, your lips gliding up her stomach, mouthing at her breasts and nipping at her collarbone. At that last image, your fingers twist sharply deep inside of you. You've never been so afraid and ashamed in your life and your silent sobs are cut off by a soft, choking cry when you come, squeezing your eyes shut tight tight tight and praying nobody has heard you.

You were hoping maybe you could reach so deep inside of yourself that she would evaporate into thin air, her haunting of your thoughts finally ceasing. But instead it's the opposite; she's sunk a hook deep into your heart and she won't let go and even if you wanted to, you can't pull away and you're flopping against a cold, wet deck like a fish, bleeding your life away.

_Forgive me, for I have sinned. Forgive me, for I have sinned. Forgive me, for I have sinned._

Your body is burning up, even after your breathing has mostly leveled out. If Elsa is ice then you are fire and you can't get too close without hurting each other and you're tired of feeling wounded all the time.

* * *

You find her sitting quietly on your couch the next morning, staring absently at the coffee table and you fight the urge to blurt _I've pictured you naked._

"So," you say quietly, sitting and crossing and uncrossing your ankles nervously.

"So," she echoes, face void of any emotion. It's unsettling, as if her soul has been ripped from her body and all that's left is a hollow, empty shell; like she's just a glass sculpture of a girl. An ice sculpture — you can practically see right through her, but for the first time there's nothing there to see. Just a broken, empty china doll girl, eyes permanently glazed over, seeing nothing.

"Does you grandmother know?"

"Yes."

"What about your parents?"

A long pause, then, "Yes."

"How long have you, um. You know."

"A while."

"Are you the only one?"

"Yes."

Your heart does a funny little twist in your chest when you think about how lonely she must be. Surrounded by people who chat away at her about their mundane inconveniences, expecting her to understand but she can't, because she isn't like them. She isn't like _you _and you realize that no matter how hard you try to be the one she can trust and confide in you'll never be that person because you're just the same as everyone else, if a little more curious.

"Anna," she says, voice soft as always. "Is there any way you'd be willing to forget about...all of this?" When you give her a doubtful look, she blushes, shaking her head. "Sorry, that was stupid. Can we just, I don't know...pretend everything is normal?"

"But it's not," you insist.

"Please." Her voice and her eyes contain matching amounts of desperation. "Can we at least try?"

"I'm already falling apart at the seams not knowing what the hell is going on," you laugh sadly. "I'm sorry, Elsa, but I just don't know if I can."

She nods, pursing her lips and shoving her hands deeper in her pockets. "I understand. I'm sorry."

She looks so broken you can't help but want to reach out for her so you do, and naturally she flinches away but you insist, trying to convey _Please just let me do this one thing for you, please just let me in for one minute._

Hands still shoved deep in her pockets, she accepts your embrace tentatively, leaning into your arms gently. It reminds you of when your mother tries to hug you but you aren't in the mood. You hold her for a few long, quiet seconds, the only sound the soft sounds of your staggered breathing and your heart beating in your ears. Icy blue eyes fluttering shut, her eyelashes brush against her pale cheeks, casting shadows along her cheekbones. You almost forget everything, just looking at her. At the same time, you can't believe you ever thought she was normal.

Then again, you did consider that she might be an angel when you first saw her. Still, it was only a joke.

When you turn to look at her this time, though, you think you can see a little bit of devil in her angel eyes.

* * *

song lyrics, yo. gotta love 'em.

due to popular demand, i may be writing one of the next few chapters from elsa's perspective. i'm not sure yet. i'd really, really like to, but i also want this to be /anna's/ story, even if it is elsanna, ja feel? hm. i'm not sure yet.

as always, your feedback is greatly appreciated. and, out of curiosity: how did you guys find out about this story? like, how'd ya end up here?

ALSO: if anyone would be willing to beta for me, i would appreciate it 110% because by the time i finish a chapter i'm either too lazy, too self-conscious or too tired to read it over again for errors. so, uh, yeah. if you're interested, let me know, because i'd owe you so bad and also would love you forever.


	11. Right Hook

**notes:** you guys are all fantastic. nuff said. also, this is the first chapter of this fic officially beta'd by my lovely wonderful beta, **thesocketpuppet**. needless to say, it is likely much cleaner and less choppy than previous chapters. i also want to thank anyone and everyone who sent me a message offering their services as well, you are all appreciated more than you could even imagine!

also, i want to apologize that this chapter took significantly longer than usual - i've been so busy lately and now with school starting up i'm going to have even less time to write, but i promise i WILL make it happen. hopefully this slightly longer chapter makes up for my short absence.

* * *

_Sucker Love_

\- X -

* * *

Things return to normalcy after that, more or less, if the situation you're in can be considered normal or average or anything of the sort.

But at the same time, normal is awful because normal means living in fear and uncertainty with all these feelings bottled up, slithering up and winding around your neck, squeezing tight like a python and choking you. It keeps you from saying anything to anybody — not your mother or your father or Hans or Merida or even Kristoff, and especially not Elsa, because if Elsa knew how much her secrets are now hurting you, that are forcing you to live in what you can only assume is a mere fraction of the fear she's lived in for so long, well, you think it might actually kill her.

Elsa is a gentle soul. She really, really is.

Elsa seems to shift randomly from completely alienating you to gravitating towards you almost instinctively. It's confusing and strange but it's okay because as long as you both pretend everything is normal and fine then maybe, just maybe eventually things will actually _feel_ normal instead of like you're constantly walking on eggshells.

Because sometimes things are easy between you two, light conversation and shared chocolates and nothing more because that's the extent that your relationship should be, really, and if you crawl into bed at night with heat flaring between your legs then so be it. But other times she's cold and distant, never making eye contact, sentences short and clipped and she's starting to live up to her Ice Queen reputation in more ways than one.

It's strange, the way you've learned to read her different moods within seconds of her walking into the room.

When she smiles softly at you and walks with a spring in her step, biting the inside of her cheek to hide an even larger smile as she slides into a seat next you to, you know she's in a good mood. Those are Elsa's good days.

On her bad days, though, she keeps her sleeves pulled over her hands and her hair is extra messy, sticking out at ridiculous angles and the crescent moons under her eyes are especially visible. She seems so small then, in the worst way, like she's just going to break or curl in on herself and disappear completely.

It's scary, how quickly her mood shifts, but it's even scarier that you're the only one who seems to truly notice.

* * *

You can't let Elsa take on the entire burden of being unpredictable, because you have been, too. It's not like you've been consciously making an effort to avoid Kristoff, but that's what's been happening regardless. You have, however, been visiting with Merida more than you'd really care to admit. What? You can't help it. She's tough but sweet and a good listener and she's even better at giving advice, kind of.

The shop is dressed in festive Halloween colors, orange and black streamers crisscrossing the ceiling, paper pumpkins and witches hanging crudely from the light fixtures. It's actually kind of cute. You're leaning over the counter, chatting absently with her when the store door swings open and Elsa walks in, looking surprised to see you.

"Hi, Elsa!" you greet her brightly - probably too brightly, considering the circumstances.

She smiles a little, nodding politely at you before disappearing into the back. You can't hold back a soft, disappointed sigh, because it kind of feels like you're back at square one.

"Elsa," you whisper loudly over the counter. When she emerges, her eyes are narrowed in suspicion and she crosses her arms tightly, biting her lip. You shift your voice to what is actually an appropriate voice for a private conversation. "Listen, Elsa. I know stuff is kind of weird right now, but -"

"But what?" she asks, and you'd think she was exasperated but her face is more unsure than anything else.

"I really do need help in math, though."

Seemingly despite herself, Elsa smiles. And then you smile, because you've never been so relieved. Maybe everything will be okay. Maybe you'll never hear what her whimpers sound like when you nip at her neck or stroke the inside of her thigh - no, Anna, no, don't think like that - but maybe, just maybe, you can be friends.

"Okay."

"Maybe this weekend?"

"Sure."

You almost don't catch the way Merida's smile falters from across the room.

* * *

The smell of chocolate and sugar is sticking to the inside of your nostrils, fingers sticky with batter when you answer the door.

And, just. It's hard not to take a step back — promptly backing into the counter with an _oof_ — and admire her, because this is as close as you're going to get to having a model standing in your own home. It's better, actually.

She's wearing a worn, tan leather jacket over an oversized white tee shirt with the words _Lakeview Cheer_ scrawled across it, her baggy, ripped jeans sitting low on her narrow hips, half-covering her scuffed black ankle boots. Her makeup is perfect, though, features smooth and calm and her white-blonde hair is neatly slicked back into a long ponytail. God, she's perfect.

There are still hints of exhaustion under that nearly flawless exterior — barely visible half moons under her eyes, the way her shoulders sag just a little —but she masks them well. Suddenly, you wonder when you got so good at reading her, at noticing all her little body language cues.

"What're you making?" she asks curiously, peering over your shoulder as she follows you into the kitchen and she smells like cotton and the trees and the rain outside. It's kind of wonderful.

"Um," you stammer, a blush creeping to your cheeks. "Just some double-chocolate cookies. I make them every Halloween. I even have cute little ghost and pumpkin cookie cutters." You hold up the little orange plastic cutters, grinning goofily, and Elsa smiles fondly. "Cute, right?"

"Very," she agrees, twisting her hands nervously and you can tell she wants to ask you something.

"What is it?" you ask her, turning to face her and wiping your messy hands on your mother's white, lacy that apron you've tied around your waist.

"Can I, um," she asks, tugging the end of her long, wispy braid nervously. "Can I help? I've always loved baking."

You can't help but smile because it's little moments like this that make you wonder why you ever were afraid of her in the first place, that make you wonder how anyone thinks she's anything but a shy little sweetheart. Crossing your arms over your chest, you cock an eyebrow at her. "I thought we were supposed to be studying," you tease, praying that she knows you're only joking.

Elsa seems to understand, because she laughs, too. "We can make cookies and then eat them while we study. You know, brain fuel and all that."

"Makes sense to me. Come on, I need help measuring out the flour."

Elsa grabs the measuring cup from the counter without a second thought, with no hesitation, and it's so easy at moments like this to feel like there's nothing different about her at all aside from being too sweet and beautiful for her own good. It feels like maybe that day in her apartment was all some terrible dream, or a false memory you've fabricated in order to keep your budding feelings for Elsa at bay — which is pretty stupid, considering it isn't working at all, but you haven't tried to actually jump her bones yet, so hey, maybe to some extent the fear of Elsa turning you into a living ice sculpture with one touch is helping you keep a safe, acceptable distance.

She shrugs off her coat and helps you measure out flour and chocolate powder, giggling when you dip your fingers into the batter three times in a minute to sneak some chocolate into your mouth. The radio is playing quietly, the sounds of the latest vapid, goofy pop songs streaming into the room and providing and backtrack for the sound of yours and Elsa's soft laughter and comfortable chatter. It's nice. It feels like friendship, or something like that. Except with friendship, you usually don't feel this fluttering in your stomach and these thoughts racing through your head.

You've never looked at your friends, female or otherwise, like that before.

Then, Elsa slips.

It's so quick you almost don't catch it, except you do - she loses her footing on the slippery tiled floor, and all at once she's staggering forward and you're reaching out to grab her arm without thinking.

"Oh!" she gasps, face mere centimeters from yours and she's so close you can smell mint on her breath and see all the tiny little glittering specks of ice blue in her eyes, eyelashes brushing across her cheeks as she blinks slowly.

It's dead silent, the only sounds coming from your uneven breathing and up close like this, you can see that she has a pale little jagged scar above her left eyebrow. You fight the urge to reach out and touch it, to trace the shape of it with your fingertips. She's got a dusting of chocolate powder on her nose and the entire room smells sweet like chocolate and sugar and cookie batter. It's on your fingers, smeared across your apron and there's chocolate on Elsa's nose and you kind of want to kiss it off.

Instead, you reach out slowly and brush it off the bridge of her nose gently with your thumb, but that doesn't keep Elsa from blushing as if you _have_ kissed her. The look on her face makes your heart stutter as a lump rises in your throat and your breath gets caught there and you physically have to stop yourself from closing the distance between your lips and hers, fingers curling, nails digging into your palms as you struggle to keep your hands by your sides.

It's the most intense moment you can recall ever experiencing and a tiny part of you hopes it never ends.

But like all good things, of course, it does end, and Elsa jerks away quickly and your cheeks heat up and you finish the cookies in silence, the fragments of what was almost a moment scattered at your feet like glass.

"You can't keep avoiding the conversation forever, you know," you say quietly, and her head snaps up. She's looking at you with so much hurt in fear in her eyes you almost want to take it back, wrap your arms around her tiny frame and hold her close and whisper _I'm so sorry, I didn't mean it, I know this is hard for you, harder than I can even imagine_. But you won't take it back, because painful as it is it's still the truth and lately the truth hurts more often than not.

"I know," she whispers. After a beat of painful silence, she says, "Excuse me." She rushes out before you can even respond, long ponytail flying behind her as she dashes quickly from the room. You hear a door slam somewhere down the hall. When she returns fifteen minutes later, her hands are shoved deep in her pockets and her face is red, like she's been crying. And then, you regret it.

"Elsa, I'm sorry -"

"It's fine, Anna," she says quickly, voice watery. "I have to go."

And then she's gone and you're left standing there, flour on your apron and an ache in your heart, feeling even colder than you did when she was around.

* * *

Hans sits across from you at dinner tonight. It's just you two, because your parents are visiting with the new neighbors down the street. It's not much of a surprise; nowadays it feels like they're never home. Instead of radiating mischief and pride, though, Hans is radiating suspicion and coldness, a feeling you're only used to feeling around Elsa and even then you don't feel nearly this looked-down upon. His eyes narrowed as he studies you over his plate of steaming ravioli.

You hate ravioli.

"What?" you ask him, setting your fork down next to the plate and wiping your mouth with your napkin, suddenly unhungry.

He's giving you this look and, well, fuck. He knows. He has to know. He really, really does, because why else would he be looking at you like that? Your blood runs cold and you shiver, sitting onto your hands and staring at your lap. God, please don't blush. Please don't blush. Please, please don't give yourself away more than you already have.

He knows. He knows you want to fuck his girlfriend, and he knows you almost kissed her. Or he knows about her secret, her...her powers. Somehow, the thought of the latter is scarier than the former, because the thought of your secrets being kept locked up tight and safe while Elsa's are out in the open, all alone, her against the world, makes your heart twist painfully in your chest.

"Nothing," he mutters, glaring down at his plate, chewing slowly and angrily. "Just...stuff."

"Okay," you manage to squeak before shoving your food away and pushing away from the table, scurrying out of the kitchen and upstairs to your bedroom, burying your face in your pillow and feeling tears of simultaneous relief and fear leaking from your eyes.

When you take your face away, the fabric of your pillow is smeared with mascara, a permanent reminder of the secrets trying to claw their way out from your heart.

* * *

It's a slow process, so slow you almost don't realize it until one day, you do.

It's not that Elsa isn't still popular, because she is. Very much so. But the chatter starts, first just a few, scattered off-hand remarks one week and as time goes by the chatter gets louder it feels like the halls are screaming _ELSA! ELSA! ELSA! What's wrong with Elsa? There's something wrong with Elsa! She's been acting so weird lately. What the hell is up with her? She's always been a little off. _

So maybe that's what Hans was upset about. After all, he's always seemed kind of protective over Elsa, if a little (or a lot) oblivious. Of course, nobody could ever even imagine the extent of Elsa's secrets, but their silly chatter bothers you even more. They don't know anything about Elsa.

It dawns on you that _you_ don't know much about Elsa, either, but you know something about her nobody else does and that's enough for you. It's more than enough - in fact, it's too much and it weighs heavy on your shoulders, painful and bone-crushing.

One Tuesday in English, Kristoff leans over and whispers to you, "Is it true?"

You raise an eyebrow at him skeptically. "Is what true?"

"I heard Elsa might be pregnant."

"_What_?!" You actually shriek, slamming your palms against the table so hard you nearly push yourself right out of your chair. A good portion of the class swivels to look at you, eyes narrowing judgmentally.

"Dude, calm down," Kristoff hisses, putting a hand on your arm to keep you in your place. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"There's no way she's pregnant," you whisper-yell back. "Where did you even hear that? That's so stupid. She's not pregnant. She totally isn't. Who told you that? She obviously isn't."

Kristoff rolls his eyes, an attitude you're not used to receiving from him radiating from his every movement. "I heard Meg from my AP Calc class talking about it after Elsa was sent down to the office. And why do you care so much?"

"Why do I care so much!?" you whisper in disbelief. "I care because I - she's my brother's girlfriend, stupid. And we're friends. Kind of. And what did Meg say? How would she know anything like that?"

"I just heard that Elsa basically confided in Meg, you know, since they're both cheerleaders so they're the same species or whatever, that she was pretty sure that she was pregnant. I guess that's why she was absent for so long and stuff. Must've been making sure or something."

You can actually feel your blood boiling. "Meg is an idiot. She's full of shit."

Kristoff's eyes widen; you _never_ talk like that. "What's gotten you so worked up, Anna?" His brow furrows in concern and confusion. "You've been acting kind of...I don't know, weird lately. Different. Are you sick or something?"

"No, Kristoff, I'm not sick," you snap, before letting out a quiet sigh and laying your head down on the desk, facing away from him. You can't do this. You can't.

You aren't a very outspoken person. In your small group of friends, it's different, but in the grand scheme of things and the hierarchy of high school, you're mostly pretty reserved.

But in this moment of courage, you set your jaw and as soon as the bell rings, you spring from your seat and stalk off down the hall, eyes peeled for Meg Egan and perpetually narrowed violet eyes.

* * *

"What is wrong with you?" is the first thing you yell at her, because you've never been awesome at insults and you're not into confrontation but you're so, so angry it feels like you could shed your own skin, rip yourself to shreds.

Meg raises a brow at you, corners of her mouth curling up in amusement with a graceful hand resting on the slope of her cocked hip. "Excuse me? I think you've got the wrong girl." Her voice is so sugary sweet and condescending, you think you're going to explode with the anger boiling inside of you.

Your entire body is on fire, flames lapping at your ankles and licking at the back of your neck and you want to scream so loud the windows shatter along with the rest of your sanity.

Instead, you unconsciously clench and unclench your fists, breathing raggedly between your teeth and you know you look like an idiot, but you can't help it, and your head is spinning spinning spinning and and you can't think straight.

So you punch her in the face.

You are not a fighter. You have never been a fighter, instead choosing to stand what you consider taller than your enemies, ignoring their criticisms with poise and dignity. Sort of. But even the idea of anyone messing with Elsa makes your entire body quake with anger and it scares you because you've never felt this angry or this protective over anyone before, especially not someone you aren't even directly associated with.

The only sound you can hear is blood rushing in your ears and Meg's squeak of surprise and wail of pain as the heel of your hand makes contact with her nose before there are hands grabbing desperately at your arms, pulling you back and people screaming in your ears and some people are even cheering, because this is high school and really, you never expected any less.

As you're hauled off of her, your vision narrows and all you can see is Meg on the ground, hand covering her nose with blood dripping from between her fingers and somewhere just down the hall, frozen in place, is Elsa, eyes wide and she's looking right at you and you're looking right at her and you don't think either of you could look away if you wanted to before you're being yanked violently back into reality and shoved down the hall towards the principal's office.

She suspends you for a week and tells you sternly that if you do it again, you'll be expelled. No exceptions.

You've never had detention let alone been suspended, but you would do it again in a heartbeat

* * *

It's a Friday night and you are sitting cross-legged on your bed, staring out the window at the darkening sky and wondering how you ever got into this mess when the doorbell rings a little too loudly, startling you so badly you nearly fall off the bed.

Elsa is standing outside your front door, oversized cheer sweatshirt hanging off one of her shoulders, wearing sneakers and white mesh running shorts that are so see-through it's almost impossible to keep your eyes off of her pale, slender legs. It's the first time you've ever seen her with her hair down, brushed to the side and cascading down her back and shoulders, a white waterfall against the black backdrop of the evening.

"I want to thank you," she says quietly, staring at the floor. "For standing up for me."

"It's no problem," you tell her sincerely, shrugging, because it totally isn't. "No big deal, though."

"It is, though. Really, Anna." Her eyes are soft and her voice is soft and her skin looks soft and Elsa is soft, soft, soft and you think you might faint.

"Well, then you're welcome." You beam at her, with her here suddenly feeling a lot better about your choice to attempt to knock out Meg Egan.

"Are you in trouble?"

"Suspended for a week," you tell her casually, leaning against the doorframe and inspecting your nails as if this is an everyday occurrence and not the first time anything like this has ever happened to you.

"Well, I work tomorrow but...do you want to hang out afterwards? I can get us free ice cream," Elsa offers shyly, winding her hair around one long, slender finger looking surprised herself, as if she can't quite believe or understand what's she's saying.

You blink, silent for almost a minute, and then you can't help but laugh. "You can't just ask me out on a date to your own place of employment."

"I just did, though," Elsa giggles, because quickly adding, "It's not a date. It's my way of thanking you. It's a friend date."

"A friendate. A frate?"

A coy smile stretches across her face, lighting up her pale features and it's like the watching the moon rise in the night sky. "I guess so, Anna." She is positively glowing.

"Really, Elsa?"

"Enough, Anna." Her voice is positively dripping with flirtatiousness, and part of you - the more prominent part nowadays - wants to jump for joy but the other part squashes that part down because you're probably just overthinking it.

"It's a date, then," you almost squeal with a grin so wide it almost hurts. "A friend date, I mean."

Elsa laughs, the sound soft and ringing like wind chimes or the peal of bells. Beautiful.

It still doesn't feel real. Nothing feels real. _Elsa_ doesn't feel real. Sometimes, in the middle of the night when the moon is too bright through the crack in your blinds and you can't sleep, you wonder if everything with Elsa and maybe even Elsa herself is just a figment of your imagination, conjured up to keep your lonely soul comfortable.

Sometimes, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, that would be easier.

* * *

i was disappointed at first with how this chapter came out, but after some editing and retouching i really, really like it and i feel it's a pretty important turning point in the story. thank you all for your wonderful, endless support and i hope you all know your kind words are ALWAYS appreciated, whether it be positive or simply constructive criticism.


	12. Sun

**notes: **sorry for the wait, guys. the chapters are getting progressively longer, though, and i'm really proud of this one, so i hope it was worth the wait.

* * *

_Sucker Love_

\- XI -

* * *

You first met Meg Egan when you were twelve years old.

As much as you'd like to deny it, it was the first time you'd really _noticed_ a girl even though you like to try to convince yourself otherwise, that Elsa was the first girl you truly noticed in the way that makes your stomach turn over on itself and your legs quiver and your cheeks burn, but in the end the fact resides deep beneath your skin that once upon a time, lonely, naive little Anna Westerguard had a crush on a girl.

You weren't a very popular kid in middle school. You're not really a popular kid now, either, so really not a lot has changed but your middle school years were...awkward and cringe-inducing at best, and you spend a lot of time thanking whoever is up there for getting you through those painful three years.

It didn't even seem like a big deal at the time because, well, you were twelve and although the idea of actually liking a girl was startling then it's a million times more startling now even though you're far more open-minded, which is the scary part.

It's just, well. How were you supposed to not notice her, with her long dark hair cascading down to her waist, violet eyes always narrowed to the point where you were never able to tell if she was confused or if she just thought you were really, really stupid. Probably the latter. It was really hard not to keep staring at her, though, soft curves in all the right places, slender and tall and it took a lot of effort to _not_ imagine what it would feel like to kiss a girl, to touch one. It was so foreign and strange and intriguing...and scary. Really, really scary, because even then you had a strong feeling you weren't supposed to be having such thoughts and the fact that you couldn't stop them was even scarier.

The thing is, it never amounted to a thing, because you were young and even then discussing those feelings was embarrassing, so you kept your feelings bottled up tight as you watched Hans try in vain to get the pretty, dark-haired girl on his arm, over and over again. It never panned out the way he'd been hoping, and, eventually, he seemed to grudgingly accept defeat and your already sparse interactions with Meg ceased entirely.

It's not like it was a huge, big deal. So you found a girl you liked looking at. That didn't mean anything. Instead, you turned the other way and shoved the whole thing to the darkest, dustiest cobwebbed corners of your mind.

You stole posters of beautiful _male_ actors and singers out of magazines from the coffee shop around the corner and taped them up all over your room, staring at the one on your ceiling as you drifted to sleep every night, because if all the other girls liked boys and only boys then you could, too. Plain and simple.

And it's true that no girl has ever made you feel like Elsa does, because Elsa isn't just sinfully beautifully but so sweet and gentle and kind that it makes the whole thing a million times more intense, far more intense than your feelings for Meg ever were.

But the truth is that at one point in your life, you closed your eyes and immediately thought of wavy dark hair and violet eyes.

Meg Egan is not a person you like to think about, because she represents yet another notch in the string of events that constantly nags at the back of your mind, reminding that no matter how hard you try, no matter how much you smile and act the part in a desperate last ditch effort to stuff yourself into the mold you created for yourself at such a young age as you looked through pictures of your mother in high school in her cheerleading uniform, you will never be a perfect, well-endowed, chatty-but-not-too-chatty, funny-but-not-over-the-top, akward-but-in-a-cute-way, _straight_ teenage girl.

You will never be normal enough, and it's fucking scary.

In that respect, you and Elsa are the same. You go together, yet you feel like you couldn't be more different from her because you're too chatty and too covered in freckles and she's beautiful and mysterious and the thought makes your chest ache longingly.

* * *

"And where exactly do you think you're going?"

Your mother's voice cuts through the quiet, still air of the household like a knife and you flinch, pausing with your hand on the front door's brass knob.

"I'll just be gone an hour, mom. Maybe not even."

"I appreciate the timeframe, but I asked you where you were going."

You sigh, turning towards her on your heel so fast your braids almost hit you in the face and shifting your weight into one leg. "I'm going to visit Elsa at work."

Your mother's expression is positively venomous. "You know you're grounded, dear, so kick off your shoes and come back inside."

"But she invited me to come."

"Anna," she snaps, clearly losing her patience. "Nobody is going to visit Elsa at work today, or any other day. Frankly, you've been spending too much time there and with her in general, anyway."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean!?" you snap, turning on her, and she looks slightly startled by your outburst but doesn't even flinch. She just keeps standing there with her hands on her hips and this nasty expression on her face and you want to scream in it but you don't, instead padding over to the stairs and plopping down on the bottom step, fully prepared to discuss this rationally.

"It means nothing, Anna, except that you are not to leave this house without explicit permission from me or your father."

"But mom, she invited me and I can't just not show up -"

"Anna Marie Westerguard, you are not leaving this house for the next two weeks. No exceptions."

Your heart sinks all the way to your stomach and you can feel frustration crawling its way up your spine. "But mom," you begin slowly, sitting on your hands to keep them from curling into fists of irritation, desperate to make her understand that this is so important. "It wasn't my fault."

"You broke another girl's nose, Anna. How on earth is that not your fault?"

The tiniest wave of guilt washes over you upon hearing the words; you knew from the moment the principal suspended you that you'd actually broken Meg's nose, that your actions had actual reverberations but it's still a shock to your system because it's so hard to believe that you, Anna Westerguard, punched Meg Egan, Lakeview's resident Queen Bee in the face, thus resulting in a broken nose for her and a suspension for you. And a major grounding and shaming by your parents.

"She was spreading lies about Elsa, mom. Are you telling me I shouldn't have done something?"

"Speaking up and defending someone is one thing, Anna. Resorting to physical violence is another thing entirely."

You shoot her a glare and cross your arms, because you know she's right, but you're not going to admit it that easily. "I understand that, and I regret hurting her, but I don't regret standing up for Elsa. Seriously, mom, all you've been doing is preaching to me about how physical violence is wrong. When are you going to admit that nobody should be spreading rumors like that about anyone, especially Elsa?"

Her eyes darken and her mouth - which previously was set in a pretty constant straight line interrupted occasionally by a flow of angry words - turns downwards into deep frown. "Anna."

"Don't 'Anna' me, mom." Your voice holds a surprising amount of poison considering you don't think you've ever spoken to your mother with such an attitude before. "Just spit it out. We both know you don't like Elsa, and we both know you have no valid reasons behind it."

Her voice is short and clipped when she replies, "Anna, I will not stand to be spoken to like this, and I will not have you making this wild accusations. You are not to leave the house, period."

She exits the room in a huff and slams a door somewhere down the hall the sound bouncing off the walls and echoing in the living room and you curl in on yourself on the steps and try not to scream.

* * *

It's hard to picture a time when you and your mother actually got along. It was a long, long time ago, and in the time gap between then and now your relationship with her has frayed to a few thin threads clinging limply, desperately. It feels like you barely see her anymore, and when you do it's always an argument over something.

You and your mother have always disagreed on things - what clothes you like to wear versus what she thinks you should be wearing, who you should be seeing, your priorities. Hell, you don't even look much like her; her darker hair and brown eyes are a sharp contrast to your strawberry blonde tresses and blue eyes. You and Hans still like to joke about you being adopted, with you consistently feeling like the black sheep of the family. Hans gets along with her much more easily, and a small part of you envies him for it.

It's hard, feeling like an outcast in your own family, but you don't like to think about it because you hate sounding like a whiny teenager. It's still true, though, and hard as you try to run from that painful truth, it will always be waiting just around the corner, wrapping itself around your eyes and ears and mouth and nose and smothering you with pain and confusion.

* * *

So, you sneak out, because that's the only logical thing to do. It's a Saturday afternoon and your father is napping on the couch and Hans is at football practice and your mother is grocery shopping, so it seems like as good a time as any.

It takes you something like an hour of trying on everything you own and modeling it in the mirror before mentally screaming _fuck it_ and pulling on your pair of favorite jeans and a tee shirt and finally your favorite green sweater. It's not great. It's not impressive. But it's very _you_, and you can only hope that it's enough.

Tiptoeing down the stairs quietly and taking the back door so as to not wake up your snoozing father, you exit the house and step into the chilly autumn air, breathing in deep and heading towards your destination - and Elsa.

* * *

"Hey, Anna!"

Merida's bright, slightly-accented voice drifts to you across the shop before you've even fully gotten through the door.

"Hi, Merida," you greet her with a sincere smile, though you'd be lying if you said you weren't a little bit distracted, because even the idea of spending time with Elsa makes you heart flutter and your palms sweat.

She's clearly miffed at your less than stellar greeting and sighs a little before smiling again, a little strained this time. "What can I get started for you? Wait, don't tell me - chocolate with fudge and cookie dough?" She's grinning at you like you're her whole world or something and you can't decide to be afraid or flattered. Maybe both.

"I really appreciate it, Merida" you force yourself to laugh. "But I'm actually just waiting for Elsa." You feel a twinge of guilt when her face falls all at once.

"Oh," she says simply. "Okay. I have stuff to do, anyway. You know, work and all. Yell if you need anything. " There's a hint of desperation in her voice that becomes evident when she falters on the last syllable and it makes you want to cry.

You stand there for a few minutes, feeling awkward and guilty and ashamed, staring absently at the cake display. Just then Henry comes out of the backroom, clutching onto two giant tubs of ice cream like his life depends on it, his skinny arms shaking with the weight of them. He drops them unceremoniously onto the counter, heaving a long sigh of relief. When he spots you, he turns sheepishly and gives you a goofy smile, and you can't help but smile back, waggling your fingers at him. Henry seems like a sweet kid, and a part of you wants to get to know him better but you know that right now you're too busy worrying about your sexuality and squashing down your budding feelings and for a pretty blonde girl with ice in her palms and the thing is that there's no room for anything else - not school or friends or your parents or anything, and it's fucking terrifying coming to that realization.

Before you can spend any more time standing there with your mouth all slack like a creep, Elsa breezes through the door, braid flying. Despite the fairly chilly fall weather she's wearing a tiny blue skirt and it's basically impossible to keep your eyes from traveling up the long expanse of her slender legs. It's funny, the temperature noticeably drops as soon as she enters, but the warmth curling around your heart and in the pit of your stomach is enough to ward away the impending chills.

When she sees you standing there gaping at her, she smiles warmly and you're sure you're going to melt into a puddle right there.

"Hello, Anna," she greets you formally, nodding.

"Elsa," you manage, and you smile just to make sure Elsa knows you're not trying to be rude, you're just having trouble forming coherent thoughts right now.

"Well, come on," she laughs, motioning you to come sit down at a small table near the window. "So," she says, cocking a brow at you and smiling almost mischievously as she slides into the seat across from you. "What kind of ice cream will it be today?"

You ponder that for a moment before smirking at her. "Chocolate milkshake?"

"Sounds like a plan." Without another word, she sashays off, skirt swinging and you watch her the entire way. She returns a few minutes later with the biggest goddamned chocolate milkshake you've ever seen, topped with an unholy amount of whipped cream and you lick your lips in anticipation.

"We sharing again? Really, Elsa, could you be anymore obvious?" you tease, part of you (okay, most of you...okay, all of you) hoping she'll say _Yes, Anna, I might as well stop trying to hide it!_ and then passionately embrace you, but you'll take what you can get.

Elsa giggles. "No! We're just...economizing, you know?"

So you dig in, talking and laughing about nothing in particular and you fall for her even harder, which you didn't even know was possible. Which is bad. Because _it's not going to happen, Anna, so just keep it in your pants and accept that all she's ever going to be to you is your brother's girlfriend and all you'll ever be to her is her boyfriend's weird little sister._

Also, the milkshake is kind of getting soupy, and even though it's freezing in here even with your sweater, melted ice cream is no bueno. You frown deeply, trying to keep yourself from grinning as an idea hatches in your mind and Elsa catches your eye.

"What?" she giggles, taking another short sip of the shake and humming contentedly.

"I think the ice cream is melting," you hint, and she flushes, clearly embarrassed and more than a little uncomfortable. You're about to blurt out a flustered and sincere apology when she rests her hand on the side of the glass, biting her lip determinedly, and slowly but surely a thin layer of ice crystals materializes on the surface of the glass. You take an experimental sip, cocking a brow at her, and although you're expecting it, it's still a shock to your system when the liquid going down your throat is once again ice cold.

Elsa looks fairly embarrassed, though, and a big part of you wonders why. It's like, you get that it's...different, and strange, and kind of terrifying, Elsa's ice powers, but they're _cool_, too and you want to wrap her up in a tight hug and tell her that there's nothing for her to be ashamed of except there's a part of you that knows deep down there's still more to Elsa than you know or could even imagine so you both go on acting like nothing is wrong and maybe, just maybe it will all go away and you can both walk away from this unscathed.

Except you're in too deep and you know it. Elsa knows it.

"I should go," you say suddenly, and Elsa's face falls.

"I'll drive you home."

"Oh, Elsa, it's fine. I can walk. It isn't too far."

"Anna, don't be silly. It's getting dark and frankly, you shouldn't be walking around alone this late."

"It's only eight, Elsa."

"Anna." Her voice is soft and pleasant as ever but the look on her face says very clearly that she isn't going to give in. Showing some spunk. It makes your knees quiver a little bit for reasons you can't explain.

"Or I could just come back to your place." And, oh god. You really, really did not mean for that to come out as ridiculously flirty as it did. Fuck. Fuck, Anna, run. There's still time to run, except you're not really a runner, and you'd probably make it about three or four blocks before you collapsed into a wheezing, coughing mess of out-of-shape-ness.

Elsa covers her mouth and this is it, this is the end, and you're about to turn and sprint out the door when you realize she's laughing. Giggling, the sounds tickling the shell of your ears like little wind chimes.

* * *

"So, how are you and Hans?" you ask, sitting uncomfortably on the edge of Elsa's mattress, trying and failing miserably in an attempt to seem inconspicuous. Dammit, Anna. "This is a no judge zone, so if you want to tell me he's awful and has terrible morning breath, feel free. It's nothing I haven't heard before; after all, I've been stuck with him since birth."

Elsa laughs a little. She's standing off to the side like she's in a strange, foreign place and not her room, shifting nervously from foot to foot and wringing her hands every so often. She won't meet your eyes and she's fiddling with a silver ring on her index finger.

"He's sweet." That's all she says. Not _Our sex life is better than ever_ or _he's my one and only, I can't imagine life without him!_ You kind of want to jump off the bed and go spinning around in circles around the tiny bedroom. You also kind of want to run up to Hans and tell him to suck your metaphorical dick, except that'd be weird because he's your brother and also he doesn't know you want to jump his girlfriend's bones.

Then you wonder where you've gotten in the habit of using and thinking such foul language.

Elsa's room is impeccably neat, a complete 180 from the last time you saw it; the glittering shards of glass from her mirror are no longer visible on the carpet. A small dark desk in the corner in the room has a stack of books at the edge, all stacked neatly with not a paper out of place. Her bed is pushed against the wall opposite the one where the mirror once hung, covers pulled tight and folded skillfully, pillows perfectly fluffed. The rest of the room is noticeably bare — no posters or little knick knacks or photos except for a tiny 4x4 resting on her dresser. You mean to look closer at it, but every time you even make a move towards it Elsa stiffens and eventually you sigh and give up, because some things are just personal and you need to learn to respect boundaries.

"Would you like to see them?" she asks quietly out of the blue, before blushing beet red and adding, "My paintings, I mean. I think you mentioned that you wanted to see them. Maybe," before you can finish the thought _I hope you're talking about your boobs._

You'd be freaked out by the intense homoerotic turn your thoughts are taking tonight except the whole situation is both too funny and too surreal to be anything but as loose and casual as possible.

"Oh! Yeah, totally. I'd love to see your paintings. Sorry. Yeah. I do. Want to see your paintings. Yes." God, Anna. Stop talking. Now.

Elsa just laughs, though, and the sound of her laughter is so lovely and uplifting you want to hear it forever and probably make it the ringtone for your phone as well, which is probably really creepy, but you're pretty sure you crossed that line a long time ago. No going back now.

With an uneasy, almost embarrassed grin, Elsa gets on her knees and peers under the bed, fishing around for something. It gives you the perfect opportunity to check out her ass; it's not even like her ass is wholly spectacular, it's just the fact that it's Elsa's that makes it so damn appealing, the subtle curve of it against the fabric of her skirt and it's embarrassing that you have to press your legs together, mortified, because Elsa is willing to show you something so damn important and personal to her and you're too busy getting horny to pay attention.

Finally after a few minutes of rearranging the things under her bed, Elsa pulls out a thin stack of canvases, grinning sheepishly, and spreads them out all over her comforter and the floor. Your hand is moving upwards to cover your mouth without you even realizing this, and tears are starting to sting your eyes and all you can manage as you glance over the array of paintings is, "Oh, Elsa."

She looks like she's about to cry, too, but for a different reason. "I know they aren't great or anything," she mumbles, reaching to start stacking them again but you reach out instinctively and grab her wrist. Her skin is so, so cold, like electricity running from that spot through your skin, into your veins, seizing your heart.

"No, Elsa," you assure her, wiping your eyes with your free hand. "They're...they're _beautiful_."

Some of them are unfinished, others more detailed, but they're all so gorgeous...and they all portray a similar message. The one closest to you, at the edge of the bed, is a painting she's done of herself. It's not detailed, her form just a small part of the large canvas. In the painting she is standing in a plain blue dress, a soft, easy smile on her face, palm facing upwards and a million snowflakes rising from her skin, ascending higher and higher and growing bigger and bigger as they near the top of the canvas; the detail on the bigger snowflakes is impeccable and, just like real snowflakes, no two are alike. It's a very calm painting. Soothing.

The others aren't so serene.

The one by your feet is a mess of dark blues and purple hues, and it takes you a few seconds to decipher it all. Elsa is in this painting, too, wearing the same blue dress as in the other painting, except this time she is hunched over, clutching at her head with hands, nails digging into her scalp. All around her there is snow, but it's not soft and calm and gentle like in the other painting. This time, it's a blizzard, a hailstorm, icy shards swirling violently all around her and the ground beneath her knees is frozen, creeping up onto her vulnerable skin.

Shaking a little bit, your gaze travels on to the next painting. Another of Blue Dress Elsa, but this time her dress is torn and her knees are bloodied and scraped and she's crying in the painting, face red and stained with tears except you can't tell if they're tears of anger and sadness. Around her, the storm rages on, swirling around her and surrounding her. She stands in the eye of the storm. Shadowy figures are gathered around the swirling cyclone of ice, all pressing in on Elsa but they can't get to her. She is alone in the eye of the storm, and from the expression on her painted face you can guess she is not alone by choice.

She is trapped.

The last painting you can inspect before dissolving into a mess of tears is by far the most painful.

It's the simplest you've seen since the first one with Blue Dress Elsa and the snowflakes, though the mood of this one is completely different. In this, a teeny tiny Elsa sits with her bony knees drawn to her chest. Upon closer inspection, you realize she's wearing her maroon and gold cheer uniform in the photo, signaling that this one is fairly recent. The air around Elsa in the painting is calm, soft flakes of snow drifting to the ground and piling around her, except the snow looks more like falling ashes and oh god, it's raining ashes in the painting and Painting Elsa is curled up with her back to the ashes and your stomach lurches because you're starting to realize that Elsa's paintings aren't just a hobby or a pastime.

Elsa's paintings tell a story.

"Elsa," you whisper, turning to face her.

Both you and Elsa are kind of crying by now.

You don't even know what to say, or how to express the remorse you feel, so you just step towards her and extend your arms.

This time, she doesn't shrink away, and you wrap your arms around her shaking form, and it's scary how small Elsa feels in your arms like this. Like a child. Fragile. Weak. Vulnerable. A wave of protectiveness washes over you as you hold her tighter, fingers curling in the fabric of her shirt and over her shoulder you can see all the paintings and you never want to let her go, you want to lock all the doors and throw the key and keep her safe here from whatever is happening to her because it's _hurting_ her.

When you finally pull back, her face is terribly red and smeared with eye makeup. She's still beautiful, though, and you hope she knows it. She sniffles once, twice, and then laughs a little, breaking the tension, and you laugh, too, tears still in your eyes when she whispers, "Thank you, Anna."

And this time it's her who pulls you into a hug, fingers digging into your back like she doesn't want to let go so you just lean into her embrace, slowly breathing in the scent of perfume and ice cream and cinnamon from her skin and clothes and hair. It feels nice. Natural, like you were always meant to reside here, crushed against her warm chest.

"What's that?" you ask when she finally (unfortunately) lets you go and you spot something poking out from beneath the bed - the corner of a canvas, perhaps.

"Anna, no -" she starts, but you lunge towards it, curiosity getting the best of you as you pull it quickly from its spot beneath the bed and a startled gasp tumbles from your lips just as Elsa reaches you, yanking the painting away with a kind of assertiveness that's so unlike her.

But you saw it.

The painting was of you - a portrait from the neck up, hair fiery red and a bright yellow sun blazing behind you, tiny little suns reflecting in your eyes, standing in stark contrast to the paintings of herself, all swirling purples and blues and blacks.

You turn to Elsa, feeling your face heat up because _Elsa thinks you are the sun_. She is clutching the painting to her chest. She looks mortified. She's going to cry again and you want to say something to calm her, to reassure her but all words are failing you.

Elsa thinks you are the sun, and it makes sense because right at this very moment you feel so very alive, like your very heart and soul are on fire.

* * *

thank you all for your unwavering support. i appreciate more than you could possibly fathom. sorry for the sporadic updates recently; work has been tuckering me out to the point where i just want to sleep when i finally get home, haha.

as per usual, your feedback is always appreciated. free hypothetical ice cream for everyone who reviews, if you ever happen to be in town and come visit me at work - seriously, the ice cream's yours. i owe you.


	13. Lost

**notes:** you guys are the coolest. you continue to absolutely floor with all of your kind words and growing support. you're all ridiculously wonderful and i can't thank you enough for embarking on this journey with me, and i hope you'll all see it through to the very end with me.

this chapter is dedicated to all of you.

* * *

_Sucker Love_

\- XII -

* * *

"My parents are going to kill me." You exhale shakily, forcing a laugh. "I'm supposed to be grounded."

Elsa giggles a little, too, the sound tired but genuine nonetheless. "Do I need to take you home now, then?"

The thing is, you really probably should be getting home soon but, well. "Nah," you tell her, shrugging a little to try to shake off the shock you feel at your own words. "I'm already fucked as is."

And it's not so much that you don't care about the trouble that you'll be in the second you step through your front door but the fact that Elsa is more important to you than any of that, so. You're staying until she's calm and her trembling has stopped and the tears have ceased and you've taken all those horrible, self-deprecating thoughts out of her pretty little head because she doesn't deserve it. She doesn't deserve any of it, and all at once it feels like it's become your sole priority to make sure Elsa never ever feels alone because the images of her broken, painted self are burned into your brain and making it hard to breathe.

Elsa laughs again, snapping you out of your thoughts and the soft, sad smile on her face is so beautiful you fall just a little bit harder. She's clearly a little taken aback at your choice of words. That makes two of you, then.

"Well," she says softly, wiping the remaining wetness from her eyes with the back of her hand. "Would you like something to eat? I can make tea."

"I can make it," you tell her quickly, because you need a minute out of this room to compose yourself because right now you're choking on happiness and sadness and confusion all at once and it's a little hard to take in. "What kind?"

"Um. There's a raspberry green tea in the cabinet above the sink that I like. There are other ones, too, if you want. And there's some cereal and stuff in the pantry. Help yourself."

You smile and give her a thumbs up before slipping out the door, and you don't stop holding your breath until you reach the kitchen. You almost scream when something brushes against your leg, but let out a sigh of relief when it merely turns out to be a ridiculously fluffy white cat with a permanent scowl on its face. _Marshmallow_, you recall with a grin.

You can't find any raspberry green tea, but you're enjoying these few minutes alone in the still silence of Elsa's tiny kitchen. It's so tiny you can nearly touch both walls if you spread your arms out. Leaning back against the counter as the water boils, you close your eyes and attempt to organize your thoughts.

Elsa is lonely. Elsa is afraid. Something very, very bad has happened to Elsa, and you are determined to figure out what it is, no matter what the cost. And, most important of all, you realize with a blush, Elsa thinks you are the sun. You are the sun, the warmth to her internal winter, and even the thought makes you want to wrap around her like a vine and never let her go.

You've never been good at protecting people, but for Elsa, you think you can try.

"So, I couldn't find the raspberry green tea but I did find the -" your sentence is cut off sharply as you step through Elsa's door - and in hindsight knocking probably would have been a good idea - and get an eyeful of the milky skin of her bare back as she pulls her shirt over her head, taut back muscles stretching faintly, ridges of her spine protruding slightly. All in all, it's not the worst thing that's happened to you, and this time you don't even try to keep your eyes from trailing downwards, over the almost sinful arch of her back that leads to the gentle slop of her skirt-clad rear, and wow, you didn't even know it was possible to be this attracted to somebody and without thinking you squeeze your legs tighter together, fighting off the heat that threatens to flare up between them, the same heat that's burning your cheeks and you have to close your eyes because it's so damn mortifying you could cry.

It's hard not to imagine running your hands along her skin — not sexually, even, not really. You want to trace galaxies along the milky expanse of her back, connect her light freckles together with your fingertips, ghost your lips along the nape of her neck and...well, yeah. It got kind of sexual. But it's hard not to, because Elsa is lovely and sweet and beautiful and so, so vulnerable right now. You both are. Vulnerable, that is. Beautiful isn't exactly how you'd describe yourself, especially not now, with the sleeves of your green sweater rolled up to your elbow and pieces of hair coming undone from your braids and falling in your face, eyes ringed with red and nose raw from crying, makeup smeared across your cheeks.

It's almost embarrassing how completely inadequate you feel, suddenly becoming all too aware of yourself, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot and diverting your eyes from the body of the beautiful girl before you.

"Oh!" Elsa squeals, becoming aware of your presence and spinning towards you, covering her chest with her thin cotton shirt and, wow. Damn. Seriously...like, _shit_. "Sorry," she blurts, clearly mortified, ducking down and pulling an oversized blue shirt over her head, back arching obscenely and you can't help the little grunt of disappoint that escapes you as the last of the pale, lovely skin of her torso is covered with fabric. Boo.

"It's okay," you say lamely, feet planted firmly in her doorway. You're kind of scared to move, because you're pretty sure any attempts to move are going to result in you falling flat on your face on the carpet.

"Thank you," she says gently, taking one of the steaming cups of tea from your shaking hands. Her fingers are ice cold, and you want more.

After composing yourself, you again perch yourself awkwardly on the edge of her bed. "Are you tired?" you ask, because the only thing coming to mind is how completely drained you are, both physically and emotionally.

"Yeah," Elsa laughs tiredly, as if she herself has just realized how tired she is as well.

Your gaze drops to the floor in the uncomfortable silence, eyes trailing along the carpet to where they land on Elsa's bookshelf, crammed with more books than it's meant to hold. _One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest_ jumps out at you, and you close your eyes, brain taking you back to that first day you spoke to her.

"I can read you to sleep," you blurt suddenly, promptly blushing and covering your face with your hands because you're a goddamned idiot. "Sorry. It's just. My mom, when I was little, she would read me to sleep at like, the weirdest hours when I would wake up crying from stupid nightmares, or I couldn't sleep because I was afraid of the monsters in my closet," you say sheepishly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "I don't know why I just remembered that."

Elsa is quiet for a moment, and when you look over she is staring at her hands, a smile playing on her lips before she meets you gaze. "That sounds wonderful."

"Really?" you ask, utterly floored.

Elsa nods, patting the bed next to her. "Yes, silly. Now read me to sleep."

So you grab the book from the shelf, scooting up next to her on the bed, and she leans into you a little bit and frankly you're not sure you're going to be able to actually comprehend words with her so close to you. But Elsa is waiting, looking up at you expectantly with tired, innocent blue eyes, so you flip to a random page and begin to read.

"'He knows that you have to laugh at the things that hurt you just to keep yourself in balance, just to keep the world from running you plumb crazy,'" you begin, and Elsa nestles closer, icy cold fingers curling gently around your forearm as her eyes flutter shut.

Something deep insides you starts to tremble. It feels a little bit like the beginning of something greater and more terrifying than you can possibly comprehend. Your eyelids start to droop, and your words start making less and less sense.

"My mother used to read me to sleep when I was little, too," you hear Elsa whisper before you drift off entirely.

* * *

You wake up feeling confused and wholly exhausted but warm and happy and sated for the first time in a long, long time.

Peering out through your lashes, you expect to find yourself curled beneath your covers in your bedroom at home, lamp still on because you don't remember turning it off before going to bed last night. Actually, you don't remember going to bed last night at all. Or going home, for that matter.

Fuck.

Your eyes snap fully open as you realize where you are, which is certainly not at home. You can feel Elsa's soft blue comforter beneath your fingertips, one hand curling in the fabric, bunching it up in confusion as you regain your senses.

And then there's Elsa...or, at least you think it's Elsa. Either it's her or a very blonde cat. It's hard to tell, because there's a lot of blonde hair in your way, what with her head pillowed by your chest and oh, there's your other hand, attached to the arm that's curled possessively around Elsa's back.

All in all, there are much worse ways to wake up. In fact, this is probably the second-best wake up you've ever had, behind Elsa crawling all over you the morning after homecoming. Except that was a dream, and this is real. Or, at least you hope this is real. It would be a shame to wake up in your own bed only to discover the entirety of yesterday was merely a concoction of your unconscious mind.

Except that it wasn't, and this is real, and it is wonderful.

Until Elsa's grandmother comes through the door. And it's not even that you're in such a compromising position with her granddaughter, because really, it's friendly at best, but the way her grandmother is looking at you makes you feel like a monster, her eyes narrowed like she's walked in on you raping Elsa.

As if on cue, Elsa stirs gently, yawning and rubbing at her eyes for a moment before realizing she's halfway on top of you, blushing profusely and giving you this goofy, sheepish grin that makes your heart ache. For a second you almost forget that her grandmother is standing in the doorway, glaring at you.

Except her grandmother is no longer there.

What?

You saw her. You know you saw her, except now she's not there, and you're not sure why, because you're pretty sure she was about to bash your head in with her cane. Except she didn't, and now you're left reeling with Elsa still wriggling around on your lap, half asleep. It's nice and all, but you're a little distracted, to be honest.

"Good morning," she murmurs sleepily, looking at you with hooded eyelids.

And this time, it's you who feels like you need to get away. Now.

"Morning," you say, sitting up fully much too quickly. Elsa scurries back, drawing her knees to her chest, eyes widening like a startled animal and your breath catches and you consider staying. Just a little bit. "I really should go. My parents are probably worried sick. Thank you for having me, Elsa."

A look of understanding crosses her delicate features, followed by a look of pure devastation that almost shatters your resolve.

"Oh," she says, so quietly you almost don't catch it. "Okay."

And then you're giving her a quick wave and half a smile that hurts your heart and you're not even completely out of her room when you hear her whisper, "I'm sorry," and you're not sure who it's directed at but frankly, you don't want to hang around and find out.

You're heading towards the front door of the apartment with such a speed that even the top track stars would probably envy you. The door is in plain sight. Almost there, Anna. Almost th-

You stop dead when you see Elsa's grandmother sitting on the couch, hands folded in her lap, face calm as she gazes at you. Like she's been expecting you.

To be honest, you're more than a little creeped out.

"I'm just leaving," you begin, feeling your cheeks heat up. "I'm very sorry for intruding."

The woman just holds up one wrinkled hand, palm facing you, signaling for you to stop talking. So you do. And at first you think she's just going to keep staring you down, and you wonder if maybe you can just inch your way towards the door and then run out, but before you can even spare a single glance in that direction the older woman opens her mouth.

"You're a sweet girl," she says simply, voice akin to sandpaper. Her eyes are dark and watery, pale skin wrinkled and her thin white hair is pulled up into a bun.

She looks nothing like Elsa, and this disturbs you more than it probably should.

"Um," you mutter, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. "Thank you."

"Elsa is a special girl."

Her words surprise you. You raise your eyebrows, looking back at her with an almost challenging expression. "I know she is." _This lady isn't going to tell me anything about Elsa that I don't already know._

"You may think you understand her, but there is more to my girl than you could ever imagine. You mean well, I'm sure."

You raise an eyebrow skeptically at her, because what the hell is this lady talking about? "Pardon me, but I'm not really sure what you're talking about."

Her voice is cold as ice when she says, "I will not let Elsa be hurt again." _Again. _Your gut twists and you bite your tongue.

"I'm her friend," you tell her finally, voice a little shaky, mustering up enough courage to look her dead in the eye. "Elsa is my friend. And I would never hurt her."

"Friend." Elsa's grandmother's lips curl upwards into what you can only assume is a smile, and you can almost feel your blood boiling now. "_Friend_."

You merely nod, jaw clenched.

"You'd be surprised," she says slowly, "how easy it is to damage somebody like Elsa."

And this is all too much, and this is crazy, and this _woman_ is fucking crazy, and everything about this is too too too much for your brain to handle and you barley manage to squeak out, "I really have to go now, thank you for having me," before turning and scurrying out the front door, shaking hands fumbling with the locks.

As you step out into the chilly morning air and turn to close the door behind you, you can see Elsa peeking out from a crack in her bedroom door.

You slam the door shut and barely make it down the stairs of the apartment complex before collapsing against the brick wall, body already shaking with sobs.

It is only ten minutes later that you realize Elsa was your ride home.

You walk, and the cold biting at your skin through your sweater reminds you of Elsa's fingers gripping your arm, so really, what's the difference?

* * *

again, thank you all so very much. your support means absolutely everything and i promise i will never give up on this story. i will finish it for you guys, because i owe you for all you have done for me.

as for updates, i'd like to apologize for how long this one took. i swear i am trying - if i could update once a week i would be most pleased but as of late my work and school schedule has been so hectic i barely have time to think, let alone write, but i am trying, and i hope i never have to keep you guys waiting this long again.

love you all to pieces.


	14. Midnight

**notes: **again, thank you for all your ridiculously wonderful words of support. i can't even express how thankful i am. also, i really enjoyed writing this chapter and i hope you guys enjoy reading it! this marks a major landmark/ turning point in the story. yay!

* * *

_Sucker Love_

\- XIII -

* * *

Your mother is screaming at you before you've even gotten yourself fully through the front door, dragging your feet with tear streaks staining your cheeks and you feel so heavy, like the weight of the world is crushing you and it's stupid, but it's how you feel and you don't know how to stop.

"So _help me_, Anna Marie, I nearly had a heart attack when your father called me yesterday evening telling me you were nowhere to be found!" Her face is almost comically red, brown eyes bulging with her jaw clenched and you can't help but smirk a little when she turns away, hands coming to her head in disbelief.

"Look, Mom," you say calmly, straightening up and looking her dead in the eye. "I'm sorry. I just -"

"You just _what_, Anna?" she shrieks. "You just thought that your little games were more important than your own family knowing you were safe and sound?"

"Mom, I'm _fine. _I was just -"_  
_

She cuts you off again. "I called Kristoff because I thought maybe you were with him, only to find that you haven't spoken to him in weeks! So I knew that unless you were out partying, the only other person you could be out with is -"

"Elsa," you cut her off flatly. "I was with Elsa. She invited me to get ice cream with her and since it was late, she offered to let me stay at her house for the night." The little white lie slides off your tongue smoothly. You figure your mother wouldn't be too happy knowing you instigated nearly all of it, seeing how upset she is now.

"That's what I figured," she huffs, crossing her arms and shaking her head in something akin to disappointment and you just don't understand, because Elsa is sweet and smart and so, so lovely and how could spending time with her be a bad thing?

"What's your problem with Elsa, anyway?" you ask her, mirroring her pose and looking her dead in the eye. She shifts her gaze almost immediately, clearly uncomfortable with your question.

"I have absolutely no problem with Elsa," she says simply, tone wholly unconvincing. "My problem is with _you. _You are grounded, Anna Marie, which means you cannot be sneaking out to go _anywhere_ with _anybody_. It's as simple as that. And if you're having trouble understanding that, then we are going to have a problem."

Your fists clench and unclench behind your back, anger flaring up inside your heart. "Fine."

You promptly stomp up the stairs to your room, slamming the door shut and flopping down onto your bed. Curling into a loose ball, you catch a whiff of something - clean and earthy, like rain.

Elsa. Your clothes smell like Elsa.

* * *

_I won't let Elsa be hurt again._

_I won't let Elsa be hurt again.  
_

_I won't let Elsa be hurt again._

Elsa's grandmother's words echo in your head over and over, bouncing and tumbling around inside your skull like they're clothes in a washer. They're the only things that keep your feet planted firmly on the green welcome mat after you knock tentatively on the familiar oak door.

It swings open seconds later, revealing a familiar face that usually would make your heart soar with affection but now sends your stomach dropping in fear, guilt consuming you the second you meet his gaze.

"So, Kristoff," you say tentatively, keeping your eyes lowered. "I need your help."

The look he gives you then in unlike any way he's ever stared at you before; cold and distant and more than a little hurt. You heart aches as you realize just how far away you've pushed him.

"With what?" he asks casually, before you can whimper out an _I'm so sorry._

But this is important. More important than Kristoff's big dumb crush on you or your stupid feelings for simultaneously every person you meet and nobody. This is Elsa.

Taking a deep breath, you tell him, "I need your help finding out everything I possibly can about Elsa."

His expression darkens even further, but you catch a hint of a smile on his face as he steps back and says, "Come in, won't you?"

You step over the threshold awkwardly, the familiar air and scent of his home working their way into your awareness. You close your eyes, breathing in deep. The air outside was cold but inside Kristoff's house it's warm, smells of pumpkin spice and vanilla wafting throughout the foyer. His mother has always loved scented candles. It's kind of been your Christmas gift to her every single year for as long as you can remember.

"I've missed you," you say simply as you turn around and suddenly you're being pulled into a bone-crushing hug, face buried in Kristoff's chest and he smells like home and you almost want to cry but instead you just wrap your arms around him, feeling happier and more relieved than you have in ages and god, you've missed him.

He pulls away finally, grinning sheepishly. "I guess I've missed you, too." His expression hardens slightly, however, when he adds, "Never push me away like that again. Or at least not without some kind of explanation first, okay?"

You nod quickly, feeling tears of joy and relief spring to your eyes as you jump up to throw your hands around his neck, pressing your face into his shoulder. "Never," you whisper as you feel the rumble of laughter deep within his chest. "I promise."

"Now," he says in an authoritative voice as he sets you down lightly. "What can I help you with regarding your lady love?"

And with that he gives you the biggest, most shit-eating grin on earth and walks down the hall towards his room, leaving you standing there in the hall, mouth agape, completely floored because, well.

That little shit. He knows you too well.

* * *

From across the hallway, you spot Meg Egan and if looks could kill you'd be dead, dead, dead and in a garbage bag the trunk of her car by now. She's got dark, bruising circles under her narrowed eyes and a bandage across her nose.

You look away almost immediately, gaze dropping to your hands and for a split second you can still see her blood on your knuckles but it's gone in an instant just like your regret.

For Elsa, you think, being a delinquent is worth it.

* * *

Your grounding is finally over. Naturally, you go over to Elsa's. Not so much because you want to (well...you do want to, but that's beside the point) but because Kristoff basically forced you.

"Since when do you enjoy playing matchmaker?" you hiss at him as he opens the passenger side door as the car pulls up next to Elsa's apartment building.

"Since now," he deadpans, glaring back at you. "Now go."

"Fine," you grumble, making a show of kicking the ground and stomping over to the building when really all you want to do is sprint up those stairs and throw your arms around Elsa. Taking a long, deep breath and making brief eye contact with Kristoff, you knock sharply on the door and pray that it isn't Elsa's grandmother who answers the door.

"Elsa," you start nervously when she answers the door, biting your lip and kicking your foot, scuffing the sole of your new shoes. "You wouldn't _really_ let some immature guy like Hans get you pregnant, right?"

There is a moment of silence before Elsa laughs, the sound soft and happy and amused, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you inside.

* * *

Elsa's room is cold. You shiver, pulling your sweater tighter around your shaking form. Fuck, how could you forget how goddamned _cold_ it is in here?

Eyes glancing over to the closet, you spot the edge of canvases poking out from the door and frown, remembering the images you'd seen that night, the images that depicted Elsa alone, demons clawing at her back. An idea blooms in your mind.

_I want to help you paint happier pictures_, you want to say but the words get caught in your throat.

"Elsa," you say, your voice so quiet but so loud in the silence that you both jump a little, giggling when you meet each other's startled gaze. "Can I paint something? Like...for you?"

"Oh." Elsa blushes prettily, cheeks turning pink and she presses her hands to her face, desperately trying to hide it but she's so gorgeous like this - well, she's always gorgeous, really but especially like this, and before you realize what you're doing you're crossing the gap between you and her in two quick strides and covering her hands with yours, resting your thumbs on the sharp curves of her cheekbones.

You'd really like to kiss her. She's tall. She's so tall. You never realized how goddamned tall she is, because her constant shyness makes her seem so, so tiny, like you could carry her around in your pocket but the thing is she isn't; she's tall and slender and so, so gorgeous and you're touching her right now, she's real and she's here with you, pretty blue eyes locked with yours and your breathing is so, so loud you would be embarrassed but you're too busy just _looking _at her, eyes trailing down to her pert little nose and then to her lips, pursed in what you can only assume is uncertainty.

You really, really want to kiss her.

But you won't because she's gorgeous and you're both so, so afraid and also she's dating your brother and also she's like, a girl, which is, well. Not weird, but different in that you've never kissed a girl before. Actually, you've never kissed anyone since the fifth grade, at least while you were sober, though you can remember the parties, the blurred vision as you stumbled around and into the waiting arms of boys you'd never met, their hands sliding down your back, tongues hot and insistent, poking at you teeth and you just gritted them further, pulling back with stunned, confused tears in your eyes and lipgloss smeared across your cheeks, their hands still tugging at the hem of your shirt.

Kissing Elsa will be different, you think. Or, _would _be different, hypothetically, because you aren't going to kiss her.

But you're done pretending that you don't want to.

* * *

Naturally, your parents decide to go away.

Well, not so much _go away_ as _visit an old sick relative who you've never ever met and only know from pictures and a few phone calls over your many years. _Anyway, it doesn't matter. They're leaving and you're no longer grounded, and that is what's important. Time to party it up. Ha.

"Well," Hans declares loudly as soon as you hear the garage door close and the car pull out of the driveway, "I'm going out tonight." He jams his hand in his pocket and pulls out a crumpled ten dollar bill. "Order yourself some pizza and invited one of your friends over or something. Have a good night, sport." He ruffles your hair and gives you a stupid, friendly wink before snatching his keys off the kitchen counter and heading out the door, already shouting something stupid and unintelligible into his phone to one of his friends.

You sigh longingly, curling into a little ball on the couch and feeling so lonely you think your heart might just shrivel up like a raisin or something.

You're jarred awake to the soft vibrating of your phone, somewhere buried beneath the blankets you've cocooned yourself in, just out of reach. You moan and grope around blindly for it before your fingers finally close around its cool surface and you bring the phone to your ear sharply, clumsily pressing the _talk _button.

"Hello?" you blurt out sleepily before turning your head away for a moment to yawn.

"Anna," comes a breathy giggle, directly into your ear and you jerk because _you know that voice_, that's Elsa's voice, that's Elsa's fucking voice and it's - you pause to check the time onscreen - 2:57 am.

It's 2:57 am and Elsa is calling you. Automatically expecting the worse, you stagger out of bed with the phone pressed to your ear, fumbling around blindly for your shoes.

"Elsa? Elsa, what happened? Is everything alright?" you gasp into the phone, yanking one of your sneakers out from under the couch.

Another giggle. "Anna, everything is _fiiiiine_. Stop worrying so much!"

You frown, falling back onto your rear with your worry quickly shifting to relief, then confusion. "Oh. Okay, um. Well then. Good. I'm really glad you're okay. No offense, but why are you calling me at this hour?"

"Guess where I am."

"Um." You fumble around for some half-assed answer, spine tingling because something isn't right about this.

"Nevermind. I'm outside your front door. Is that creepy? That's creepy, sorry," she laughs.

Without another word you're tossing the phone down and nearly throwing yourself off of the couch, hurtling towards the front door with speed that you can only assume rivals Usain Bolt.

She stumbles a little as she steps over the threshold and you instinctively reach out to steady her, one hand on her elbow with the other holding her waist firmly, and that's when you catch the scent of alcohol on her breath.

"Elsa," you breathe, stomach suddenly churning. "Are you drunk?"

Elsa just laughs, throwing her head back dramatically, blonde hair getting everywhere before she realizes where she is and what time it is and clamps a hand over her own mouth, eyes widening comically. "Sorry," she whispers loudly.

"You're drunk," you state flatly, heart sinking in your chest.

"Only a little," she retaliates in a whisper, looking more defensive and pouty than you've ever seen her and it's kind of extremely adorable but also worrisome because, well. Obviously.

You've only been drunk twice in your life, and you hated it both times. Hated the way the liquor made the whole room spin and your stomach feel like it was turning over and inside out, hated the boys grabbing at your waist and mostly you just hate how stupid it makes people, like how stupid it makes Hans. You've seen it before; him staggering around the morning after a party, clutching his head and moaning in despair before stumbling back into his room and sleeping till the next day.

Gripping Elsa's bony wrist in one of your hands tightly, you practically drag her up the stairs and into your bedroom, sitting her down on the edge of your bed and standing before her, arms crossed over your chest.

"So what happened?" you ask inquisitively, eyes narrowed.

"I, uh," she begins, jiggling her leg and fiddling with a strand of her hair. "Soooo. What?"

You let loose a long sigh of exasperation. "Why are you drunk?"

"Oh!" She nods enthusiastically. "I was, um. I was at a party, with Hans..." You wince as soon as his name is mentioned. Of course it was him. "And, uhm. I was with him but not really? Like he kept...he kept talking to all his football buddies and people I didn't...didn't know," she pauses to hiccup adorably, and your stern facade softens because _god why is she so cute?_

"Anyway," she tries again, seemingly struggling to come up with the words she needs to convey the story to you. "He kept dragging me around the place so he could talk to all his friends, and I knew a few people, like, I saw Belle there, you know Belle?" She doesn't wait for you to answer before continuing on. "But like...I know them but I don't think...I think maybe they don't like me. Maybe...maybe they know. Do you think they know, Anna?" Her eyes widen in horror and she squeaks.

"About what?" you ask quickly, rushing to her side, rubbing her back in a way that you can only hope is comforting. "About your...um...your ice...uh, powers?" You've never talked about them out loud before, not really. It's weird. "No, Elsa. I'm sure they have no idea. You're very good at hiding them, you know."

"I haven't always been, though," she says quietly, fiddling with her hands and gazing at you, hand coming out to weave her fingers through your hair. She gazes at a strand of hair for a while, something burning in her eyes that you don't understand, and you pipe up.

"But you're much better at it now, right?" you ask hopefully, prompting her to snap out of it.

She nods quickly, blushing bright red. "I just. They don't...they pretend to like me and they're nice but I know they don't really like me and I just...I'm scared that if I break up with Hans or he breaks up with me...I'm scared of what they'll do to me." Her voice is barely a whisper now and your heart sinks into your gut.

"Oh, Elsa," you murmur, feeling tears prickling at your eyeballs. "Is that why you got drunk? You know I'd protect you, right? I mean, I gave freaking Meg Egan a broken nose just for spreading rumors about you."

"Oh!" she says suddenly, like she's just remembered she was in the middle of a story. "No. That's not why. I just...Hans was toting me around and I had a drink in my hand but I was taking...I was taking little sips, you know? Nothing too bad, because I don't like being drunk very much." You roll your eyes but she just blinks at you, as if to say, _I'm being serious._ "And all Hans' friends were saying stuff, and at first I thought it was because they didn't think I could hear them but I was looking right at them and they _knew_, Anna. They _knew_ and they were saying all this stuff like 'Hey Hans, how's your girl here in bed?' and 'Think we could give her a try sometime?' and Hans just _stood _there, Anna. So I just kept drinking because I figured if I got drunk enough maybe it wouldn't bother me so much or something. " She's kind of crying now and you feel sick to your stomach.

"They...they said that?" you whisper.

Elsa doesn't answer, but her silence is all the answer you need.

Suddenly you hear it, the front door opening and the sound of footsteps pattering downstairs, then what sounds like someone smacking into the wall followed by a not-so-quiet _oof_. Then the front door slamming shut. Footsteps on the stairs.

Shit. Hans. Shit, shit, shit.

"Fuck, Elsa," you hiss, turning to her with fear consuming your insides because logically you know Hans won't come in here (why would he?) but even the notion of it is absolutely terrifying and Elsa is being so loud and giggly and unlike herself, she's bound to give herself away.

"Who's that?" she whispers, eyes widening to the point where you have to laugh, quickly covering your mouth with your hand. A few strands of white-blonde hair fall out of her braid and into her eyes and she crinkles her nose adorably, puckering her lips and attempting to blow them out of her way. You're smiling so wide at this point that your cheeks actually hurt as you reach over gently and push the stay hairs out of her eyes. She smiles gratefully at you just as you hear Hans' footsteps right outside your door.

And then your doorknob turns.

You nearly fall off the bed in a panic before realizing the door is locked. Okay. Good. Now you just have to make sure Elsa keeps quiet.

All at once the rattling of the doorknob ceases, and you hear Hans mutter, "Shit, wrong door," before clomping off down the hall.

As soon as you hear his bedroom door close, you collapse into a fit of hysterical giggles, clutching your sides, because you've never been so relieved or so amused. Hans is so stupid. You still can't believe he managed to get somebody as completely wonderful as Elsa.

You finally release the breath you've been holding in ever since Elsa showed up on your doorstep as you feel her settle in beside you in the bed, and let your eyes flutter shut except your mind won't shut up so frankly you don't expect sleep to come anytime soon.

You're somewhere halfway between being asleep and awake when you feel Elsa shift next to you, and when you open your eyes to check if she needs anything suddenly she's got hands on either side of your body and she's gazing down at you with huge, glassy blue eyes, long blonde hair falling all around her face and creating a kind of curtain around the both of you. And she's looking at you in a way you've never been looked at before in your life, a look that makes you heart flutter and your stomach tie itself in knots like a rope and if you're the rope then Elsa's your anchor.

It's nothing spectacular, yet at the same time it is nothing short of breathtaking — one second you're gazing into Elsa's blue eyes, narrowed in inebriated playfulness and the next you can't see anything and all you feel is a pair of lips brushing against yours, painfully soft and sinfully sweet and it feels nothing like kissing a girl who holds ice beneath her skin. It's warm and cozy and you've never had more of an urge to throw your arms around Elsa's neck and pull her close, kiss down her jawline and lap greedily at her pulse point but before you can even react she's pulling away, eyes wide and even in her intoxicated state it's obvious that she knows she's made a mistake.

A mistake, you think bitterly. That's all you are, all you've always been. That's what all of this is. A fucking pathetic _mistake_, because you're not a genius but you're smart enough to know that Sober Elsa would not have wanted this.

Seeming somewhat concerned but pleased, Elsa simply lowers herself back onto the mattress next to you, curling up into a tight ball on top of the covers and you think you can hear her crying.

"Sorry," she squeaks out after a long, long time. When you roll over to look at her, face still flushed with heat, you're taken aback to find her with red, puffy eyes and tears trailing down her pale cheeks. God, she's drunk. She's really, really drunk, and she didn't know what she was doing. She didn't know what she was doing, and it was a mistake, just one big mistake and you were stupid to ever think otherwise, but mostly you just feel bad for her and you're so, so tired, so you wrap an arm around her and she curls instinctively into your embrace.

"It's okay, Els," you murmur gently, unconsciously winding your fingers into her silky hair, liking the way this new nickname rolls off your tongue. "Just go to sleep now, okay?"

"Mmm...'kay," she murmurs, settling into the form of your body, eyes fluttering shut. She's so _beautiful_.

She's asleep within minutes but you remain awake and alert for hours afterwards, storm clouds brewing in your head as you run your tongue over your lips just to savor the taste of Elsa.

* * *

voila! again, pretty excited about this chapter. reviews + con-crit are always encouraged and wholly appreciated. :)


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